m  ml  ml  i^i  p 

Ja3MNn3Wv        >&Ayvaani^      ^^Aavnaiii^       ^riuoNvsoi^     "^/saaAi 


.-5WEUNIVERy/A 


'^mwm^ 


^m-mnEs^      ^immro/^^     ^im\ 


%JI]V0JO^ 


^lOSANCfl^^ 


^   5 


^^.OFCAllfOftj^ 


'^/ia3AiNn-3WV         ^<?Aaviiani>f^ 


;l 


AirtEUNIVERJ/A 


%JI1VJJ0'*^       "^tfOJIlVDJO^  <rjl]0NVS01^ 


^•lOSA 


S    ;^ 


I 


^OFCAllFOfti^ 


^OFCAllFOP/jt^^ 


^<?AHvyan-^v^ 


.^WE•UNIVERX//, 


<ril30NVS01^ 


a 


^\V\EUNIVER%       ^lOS^CEl^^ 


<rii30Nv  soi^     "^/jaaAiNa  3wv^       "^if/oj  iivo  jo^ 


^^WE•UNIVER%.       ^lOSANCElfj> 


!^i  1(5:^ 


A-0FCAIIF0% 

l\©i 


4s> 


v: 


^'(^Aavaan-^N^^      >&Abvaan-ii^       <riuoNvso)^     "^Aa^AiNaawv 


^WEUNIVERS"//. 


^lOSANCElfj^ 

o 


-s^HIBRARYOc.       ^HIBRARYQ^^ 


<ril3DNVS01^       "^/^aBAINd-JWV 


^<!/0JnV3JO^ 


^^WEUNIVERy/A 


<ril30NVS01^ 


^lOSANCElfj^^ 


"^AilJAINa-lWV^ 


^OFCAllFOftjl^ 


^^wjiani^ 


^OF-CALIFOi?^ 


-s^M-llBRARYQ^ 


^IIIBRARYO^ 


,^.OFCAllFOft<^ 


^OFCALIFOi?^ 


^^Aavaan-^v^ 


"^^Aavaain^ 


.\\\EUNIVERSyA 


%jnv3jo^       <rii]ONVso)^ 


^^WEUNIVER% 


<ri13!)NVS0# 


^lOSANCElfx^ 


"^aaAiNajwv^ 


^lOSANCElfj-^ 


%il3AINa-3WV^ 


\WEUNIVER%        v^lOSANCElfj> 


^illBRARYO^ 


^^UIBRAmj^^ 


^i:?i30Nvso)^      "^/iiiaAiNaawv^       ^omyi^"^ 


^<!/oanv>jo^ 


^WEUNIVER%         v>:lOSANCElfj> 


^^ 


^OFCAll  ?0Jf4^y       ^OFCALI  FO^.j[>^ 


CCENTOS    DE    CALIFORNIA 


LOS    ANGELES 
1904 


48837 


C  \  C  6 


"c/^w  /  mj'  brother's  keeper?"  ^/Ijye,  thou  art! 
Tis  thine  to  bind  the  wound,  to  ease  the  smarts 
To  guide  the  halting  foot,  to  help  the  hand 
Lagging  with  over-labor;  thine  to  stand 
Ever  beside  the  weak  against  the  strong — 
tA  soldier,  fearless  of  the  ranks  of  wrong. 
Tis  thine  to  succor;  shelter;  and  to  heal 
The  ills  of  flesh  and  spirit;  thine  to  feel — 
j4  child  of  Earth-ihe  common  lot  of  woe. 
'Our  brother's  Keeper'  ^yel  and  could  we  know 
Than  this  a  Heaven  fairer  that  could  be! 
Linked  heart  and  hand  in  kindred  unity, 
To  walk  a  world  whence  enmity  had  fled, 
A  world  wherein  the  tempter.  Self  was  dead. 
Unbound  of  cast  or  creed,  or  tongue,  or  race — 
A  world  of  Love,  before  our  Father's  face. 

INA  COOLBT{ITH. 


CONTENTS. 


THB  WOMAN  OF  DREAMS  -        -        -  Henry  S.  Kirk 

CHRISTMAS  AT  SEVEN  DEVILS  -  -  Catherine  Markham 
BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  SHOOTING  STAR  Lillian  Corbett  Barnes 
THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN        ....       Olive  Percival 

SUSY Nancy  K.  Foster 

THE  SPIRITUAL  WOOING  OF  PETER  HANCE  Gertrude  Henderson 


THE  WOMAN  OF  DREAMS. 

ANUELA  GONZALEZ  stood  in  her 
doorway,  and  looked  out  over  the  water. 
All  she  could  see  was  the  empty  bay  and 
the  hills  beyond;  but  it  was  where  the 
ships  came  in  from  the  sea,  and  Manuela  Gonzales 
looked  over  the  water  with  silent  eyes.  The  sea 
had  sung  her  son  from  her,  and  had  never  given 
him  back.  She  had  watched  and  waited,  but 
he  never  came.  Every  evening  at  sunset  she 
stood  in  her  doorway  and  looked  over  the 
water,  her  eyes  staring  with  changing  hope  and 
fear.  With  the  last  light  of  the  sun,  a  day  of 
waiting  for  Manuela  was  done;  with  the  first  gray  of 
dawn,  another  began.  Weeks  and  months  went  by. 
Moons  came  and  melted,  and  years  went  with  them, 
but  no  ship  came  in  from  the  sea  with  the  son  of  Man- 
uela. New  stars  shone  over  Monterey,  and  new  roses 
clung  to  the  adobe  walls,  leaves  dropped  from  the 
pear  trees,  and  came  back  again,  but  the  house  of 
Manuela  was  empty. 

Manuela  Gonzales  stood  in  her  doorway  and  looked 
out  over  the  water.  The  sun  was  below  the  pine 
trees  on  the   Sierra.     A  red  Hght  spread    upon    the 

7 


bay  and  upon  the  hills  beyond.  The  air  blew  in  from 
the  sea,  into  the  face  of  Manuela,  and  past  her 
into  the  house.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  earth  nor 
in  the  sky  but  of  the  falling  of  the  sea  upon  the  sand. 
The  mystery  of  the  dying  day  filled  the  air.  The  oak 
trees  stood  silent  upon  the  mesa.  The  red-tiled  roofs 
gave  back  to  the  sky  its  fainting  glow.  Shadows 
limned  themselves  in  the  canyons  in  the  hills.  The 
things  of  the  day  faded  before  the  coming  dark.  But 
there  was  no  sight  for  the  eyes  of  Manuela  but  the 
water  upon  which  a  ship  might  sail  in  from  the  sea. 

The  days  of  her  waiting  with  their  aching  and  their 
loneliness  cried  out  in  her  heart.  They  were  with  her^ 
always,  and  at  sunset  a  new  day  with  them.  Her  life 
and  her  hope  had  been  for  her  children.  She  had 
given  her  prayers  and  her  watchings  for  them,  through 
the  days  and  the  nights  of  their  young  lives.  She 
had  walked  after  them  in  death,  till  all  were  gone 
but  Mateo,  and  he  was  out  in  the  sea,  in  a  world  she 
knew  nothing  of.  Her  home  was  empty.  There  was 
no  one  to  come  to  her  in  the  morning,  no  one  to  be 
with  her  through  the  long  day. 

Mateo  was  on  the  sea,  and  the  others  were  with 
God.  But  some  day  Mateo  might  come  back  to  her, 
and  she  would  no  longer  sit  alone.  Her  life  would  be  full 
again  and  her  days  would  end  in  peace.  She  lived  and 
prayed  that  she  might  be  blessed  again  with  her  Mateo. 
She  waited  for  him,  and  looked  out  over  the  water  for 
the  ship  to  bring  him  home.     She  kept  his  room  ready, 

8 


and  changed  the  flowers  every  day  upon  his  little  altar. 
She  set  his  place  at  the  table  opposite  her  own.  Some- 
times she  thought  she  could  see  him.  She  would  talk 
with  him,  and  make  herself  believe  he  was  really 
there,  and  not  on  the  water.  She  gave  him  his  fri- 
joles  and  his  coffee  and  the  empanadas  he  always  liked 
and  she  talked  with  him  of  the  things  that  had  hap- 
pened since  he  was  gone.  Every  night  she  kissed  the 
air  in  the  empty  doorway  of  his  room,  and  commended 
his  sleep  to  God  and  the  Blessed  Mother.  She  thanked 
God  for  the  illusion ;  she  held  it  deep  in  her  heart,  and 
looked  for  it  as  she  did  for  the  ship  to  come  in  from 
the  sea. 

Manuela  Gonzales  stood  in  her  doorway  and  looked 
out  over  the  water.  The  red  light  of  the  dying  sun 
faded  in  the  air  and  upon  the  hills.  The  gray  of  the 
evening  deepened.  The  breaking  surf  sounded  faint- 
ly from  the  sand.  A  star  came  into  the  sky.  Man- 
uela looked  out  over  the  water,  but  no  ship  came  in 
from  the  sea.  She  went  into  her  house,  and  into  the 
little  kitchen.  There  was  Mateo  standing  against  the 
window.  He  had  never  seemed  so  much  like  life  be- 
fore.    The  old  woman  clasped  her  hands. 

''God !"  she  cried,  the  tears  running  down  her  face, 
''Mateo !"  She  motioned  to  the  table.  She  brought 
the  things  from  the  fire. 

"Mateo,  Mateo,"  she  said,  ''the  ship  did  not  come  in 
today.  Nothing  came  in  but  the  wind  in  the  air. 
The  empanadas  are  good.     Mateo,  Mateo,  when  will 

9 


you  come  back  to  me!  I  was  all  the  morning  in  the 
church.  Father  Sebastian  told  me  God  would  take 
care  of  you,  and  the  Blessed  Mother.  I  know  it,  but 
I  want  you,  Mateo.  The  others  are  gone.  I  have 
only  you.  General  Castro  said  he  would  have  you  in 
the  presidio  when  you  come  back.  You  may  go, 
Mateo,  if  you  like.  I  shall  do  nothing  to  keep  you 
from  Avhat  you  want,  only  if  you  were  near  me,  where 
I  could  see  you!  I  have  given  up  the  others,  and  I 
w^ould  give  you  up,  too,  if  you  wanted  to  go.  Yester- 
day a  ship  came  in,  and  I  went  to  the  water,  but  you 
were  not  in  it.  Mateo,  ]\Iateo,  I  wonder  if  you  ever 
hear  me  talking  to  you !  Perhaps  God  lets  you  know 
I  do.  He  will  keep  you  for  me,  anyway,  and  I  shall 
see  you  with  the  others !" 

The  old  woman  looked  into  the  eyes  of  her  son. 
They  seemed  staring  and  strange.  The  lips  moved 
as  if  endeavoring  to  speak.  Through  the  window  the 
light  of  the  night  fell  upon  the  floor.  The  stars  glit- 
tered in  the  sky.  The  moon  came  up  from  behind 
the  hills.  Manuela  looked  into  the  face  of  her  son. 
It  was  in  the  shadow,  but  she  could  see  every  line  upon 
it. 

''Mateo,"  she  said,  "the  sea  is  always  saying  it  will 
not  give  you  back,  and  the  wind  says  the  same  thing, 
too.  I  ask  it  to  blow  you  back  to  me,  but  it  will  not. 
Mateo,  are  you  dead !  Are  you  coming  to  me  to  do 
something!  I  pray  always  for  you.  God  will  give 
you  rest.     I  pray  with  my  heart  and  my  soul,  and  with 

10 


all  my  life.  You  are  looking  at  me  so  strangely. 
Don't  say  anything,  Mateo.  It  will  be  all  right.  The 
garden  is  just  the  same.  Will  you  have  some  more 
frijoles?  The  rose  is  on  the  roof  now.  I  bring  the 
flowers  to  the  church.  I  brought  some  this  morning 
to  Dona  Modesta.  She  said  General  Castro  would 
not  forget  you  when  you  came  back.  Father  Sebas- 
tian says  his  Mass  for  you  every  week.  You  are  all 
in  the  moon,  Mateo.  You  used  to  look  at  the  moon 
when  you  were  little.  I  could  not  get  you  to  sleep, 
only  when  I  sang  to  you." 

^  The  old  woman  rocked  in  her  chair  and  sang  croon- 
ingly. 

"You  always  liked  to  hear  me  sing  better  than  anyone 
else.  When  you  come  back  I  will  sing  you  to  sleep 
again.  We  shall  be  happy,  Mateo.  You  will  be  in 
the  presidio.  General  Castro  said  he  would  have  you 
there.  May  be  you  would  rather  be  here  with  me, 
and  work  in  the  garden.  The  day  of  our  Lady  of 
Guadeloupe  is  coming.  If  you  could  only  be  here, 
then,  we  would  go  to  the  church  and  hear  Father  Se- 
bastian, and  we  would  sit  in  the  plaza.  You  are 
tired,  Mateo.     Your  room  is  ready,  but  I  shall  go  in." 

She  rose  from  the  table  and  went  into  her  son's 
room.  She  turned  back  the  coverings  of  the  bed,  and 
stooped  and  kissed  the  pillows.  She  closed  a  shutter 
of  the  window.  She  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
with  holy  water  from  the  little  altar,  and  went  back 
into  the  kitchen.     She  paused  quickly  inside  the  door, 

11 


gasping.  Her  son  stood  in  the  moonlight,  his  arms 
outstretched.  She  could  see  his  throat  moving  con- 
vulsively, the  tears  running  down  his  face. 

"Mateo,  Mateo,  what  is  it!  Are  you  not  at  rest! 
God,  I  shall  go  mad !  You  shall  rest,  Mateo.  You 
are  gone  from  me !  I  shall  never  see  the  ship  in  the 
sea,  but  you  shall  rest.  I  shall  see  you  with  the  oth- 
ers. God,  give  my  boy  peace,  and  all  who  are  in  un- 
rest!     Good  night,  Mateo." 

She  went  nearer  her  son. 

''Good  night,  our  Savior  save  you,  and  our  Blessed 
Mother !" 

The  figure  of  the  man  moved  toward  her,  the  arms 
outstretched.  A  sound  came  from  his  throat,  as 
though  a  whispered  calling  upon  her.  The  moonlight 
fell  full  upon  his  face.  The  old  woman  started,  star- 
ing rigidly.  She  went  into  his  arms  and  kissed  him. 
The  good  night  fainted  from  her  lips. 

"Mateo !"  she  cried.  His  arms  were  tight  about 
her.  His  tears  were  falling  upon  her  face.  "Mateo !" 
She  threw  her  arms  about  his  head.  "God,  Blessed 
Mother,  I  thank  you !  Mateo,  you  have  come  back  to 
me!" 


He:nry  S.  Kirk. 

12 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEVEN  DEVILS. 


HE  rhythmic  boom  between  water  and  earth 
in  the  hydrauHc  mines  was  chording  thun- 
derously with  the  rush  of  the  storm-wind 
down  the  pine-spiked  ravines  at  Seven  Devils. 
A  fine  mining  season  and  a  lively  Christmas  was  the 
prophecy  of  the  loungers  in  Solomon's  store,  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  pack-train  with  the  weekly  mail. 
The  store  doors  swung  open  suddenly  and  a  gust  of 
wind  swept  in  a  young  man  of  city  bearing,  and  a 
slender  young  woman,  swathed  in  waterproof,  a  red 
nubia,  with  pelting  ends  about  her  head. 

The  listless  sitters  were  alert  at  once.  Big  Denis 
hitched  up  his  blue  overalls,  his  partner  buttoned  a 
greasy  vest  over  a  greasier  red  shirt.  Pike's  Peak 
Darby  raked  a  pocket-comb  through  his  hair  and 
beard;  Blue  Jay,  otherwise  B.  J.  Bumpus,  put  aside 
the  harmonica  on  which  he  had  been  playing,  and 
Black  Douglas,  the  crack-shot,  rose  to  bow  and  smile 
with  the  grace  that  had  pleased  Eastern  drawing- 
rooms.  The  lady  greeted  each  with  gentle  voice  and 
smile  that  died  at  once,  leaving  wistful  eyes,  and  made 
a  few  purchases  of  Christmas  gifts  for  the  half-dozen 
children  of  the  camp. 

13 


The  young  man  leaned  against  the  counter  furtively 
sketching  people  and  postures  about  the  stove.  Pres- 
ently the  two  passed  out  again.  No  one  in  the  store 
spoke  for  a  few  moments.  Then  Big  Denis'  partner 
ejaculated  viciously : 

''D — mn  old  Tom  Bain  anyhow !" 

"Vm  with  you  there,"  said  Pike's  Peak.  "Tom 
Bain  is  giving  that  little  wife  of  his  every  chance  to 
get  broke  up.  This  New  York  newspaper  chap  may 
be  his  cousin  and  a  good  fellow,  but  it's  Bain's  own 
job  to  take  care  of  her,  and  not  his  cousin's." 

"Boys,"  said  Blue  Jay,  tanned  and  tawny  and  like 
a  bronze,  in  his  brown  denims,  "I  don't  like  to  have 
Agnes  Bain's  name  come  up  even  this  way  among 
friends.  I'm  afraid  I'm  down  in  the  books  Up  There 
for  the  murder  that's  in  my  heart  for  that  hulking 
brute,  Bain.  Crazy  after  her  till  he  got  her  a  year  or 
two  ago,  and  now  pays  no  more  attention  to  her  than 
he  does  to  the  Chiny  cook.  Has  mostly  no  idea  she's 
alone.  I  don't  much  blame  the  story-paper  feller  for 
hanging  around  her.  He  wants  to  make  up  for  some 
of  his  relation's  blank  cussedness,  I  suppose;  but  I'm 
afraid  he'll  git  too  near  the  edge  of  the  cut  and  pull 
the  little  girl  in  with  him." 

"How  in  thunder  did  that  sensitive,  delicate  young 
girl  ever  come  to  marry  that  cold-blooded,  drunken 
lout?"  said  a  stranger  who  sat  by.  "Strikes  me  I'd 
ruther  be  burned  for  all  eternity  than  have  to  live  in 
the  house  with  him." 

14 


"Just  like  a  woman,"  said  Blue  Jay,  apologetically. 
''She  was  almighty  lonesome  after  her  father  got  killed 
in  the  big  slide,  and  this  man  hung  around  her  till 
he  got  into  her  life  somehow.  She  just  salted  some 
of  her  own  goodness  of  heart  into  him  and  thought  she 
had  struck  a  prospect.  Besides,  boys,  he  is  worse  now 
than  he  used  to  be.  I  knew  him  before  Agnes  left 
the  convent  at  Grass  Valley,  where  her  father  put  her 
after  her  mother  died,  and  he  wasn't  so  bad.  He 
hadn't  took  to  drinking  then,  and  folks  said  he  had 
a  family  of  j edges  and  edintors  and  things  in  New 
York  that  was  mostly  decent." 

''Yes,  the  crathur  has  gone  to  the  bad  intirely  since 
he  lost  his  money  in  the  True  Blue,  and  began  to 
drink,"  said  Big  Denis.  "Whin  he  married  he  thought 
he  had  a  pile  and  would  soon  quit  the  mines,  thev  say, 
and  God  knows  but  it  may  be  preying  on  his  mind  the 
robberies  going  on  all  the  time  in  the  Sivin  Divils  " 

"Mighty  strange,  now  ain't  it,  the  way  that  Seven 
Devils'  claim  bucks  at  every  clean-up,"  said  Darby. 
"The  rock  pans  out  as  well  as  ever;  the  channel  is 
on  both  sides,  and  still  the  company  don't  m^ake  ex- 
penses." 

"They'll  drop  the  thief  soon,"  said  Blue  Jay.  "Every 
man  in  the  Seven  Devils'  cuts  feels  under  suspicion 
and  they  are  all  on  the  lookout.  The  watch  says  he 
is  ready  to  shoot  at  sight  or  sound  in  the  under  cur- 
rents after  this." 

Meantime,  Agnes  Bain  had  passed  to  her  little 
15 


home  under  the  hill  to  try  to  waste  away  the  lircary 
day.  From  books  and  music  she  turned  to  the  win- 
dows to  watch  the  gray  skeining  of  the  rain  with  the 
dull  accompaniment  of  thought :  ''Why  am  I  cor- 
nered here  on  this  dreary  mountain  side — I,  who 
dreamed  such  dreams  of  freedom  and  large,  free  liv- 
ing? Travel,  life,  and  love  were  in  the  covenant  with 
this  man  who  names  me  wife,  and  yet'  counts  me  of 
his  veriest  chattels." 

"And  still,  why  frame  the  desolation  in  words? 
There  is  nothing  to  do  but  endure." 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  over  the  fireplace.  Two 
hours  before  Elton  would  come;  but  how  futile  for 
her  to  note  his  comings  and  goings,  so  soon  to  be  at 
an  end   forever. 

"It  is  only  that  he  understands  my  life  and  its  isola- 
tion," she  said.  "Let  me  enjoy  the  sympathy.  I  will 
repay  by  and  by." 

When  Elton  came  her  eyes  were  still  upon  the  rain- 
swept hills.  "Well,  Mistress  Agnes,"  he  began,  "the 
summons  I  have  been  dreading  has  come.  I  am  im- 
peratively bidden  home." 

The  world's  dimness  hid  from  each  the  other's  pal- 
lor. 

"It  will  seem  well  to  go,"  she  said,  slowly — "to  see 
people  living  once  more." 

"I  confess  to  only  one  regret,"  he  said,  hesitatingly, 
"and  that  I  scarcely  dare  to  word.  You  have  never 
uttered  a  complaint  of  my  cousin,  but  do  you  think 

16 


I  do  not  know  all?    How  can  I  leave  you  with  him, 
Agnes?" 

"Hush!  hush!"  she  commanded,  her  eyes  wide,  and 
fastened  on  the  beckoning  trees  of  the  ravines. 

"Tom  Bain  is  my  kinsman,"  said  Elton,  fiercely, 
"but  I  would  pluck  my  heart  out  if  I  thought  one  drop 
of  his  cold,  cruel  blood  was  in  my  veins." 

"You  must  not,  must  not  speak  so,"  she  protested, 
clutching  the  window  ledge,  forcing  herself  to  look 
away,  but  panting  with  the  bliss  of  knowing  that  he 
understood  and  cared. 

"You  were  only  a  child  beside  his  years,"  he  said. 
"He  had  no  right  to  bind  his  life  to  yours,  to  any 
woman's.  There  is  a  curse  on  all  his  mother's 
house — " 

"It  is  too  late  to  tell  me  now,"  she  moaned;  "but, 
Elton,  I  am  sometimes  so  afraid  of  him.  Sometimes 
he  does  not  sleep  at  all.  I  have  begged  him  to  let 
me  have  a  neighbor's  child  to  stay  with  me,  when 
he  must  steal  in  and  out;  but  his  anger  is  terrible  if 
I  even  seem  to  notice  his  coming  and  going.  Some- 
times for  days  he  does  not  speak  to  me. 

"Oh,  I  ought  not  to  tell  even  you ;  but  I  have  been 
dumb  so  long,  and  you  will  soon  be  so  far  away — " 

"Agnes,"  he  faltered.  "It  stabs  me  to  think  I  can 
do  nothing.  Let  me — "  and  he  reached  out  his  arms 
toward  her. 

But  her  face  was  turned  toward  the  writhing  woods, 
and  he  drew  them  back  and  clinched  his  hands  behind 
him. 

17 


''If  I  dared  to  tempt  her  white  soul!"  he  groaned. 
"But  I  must;  I  will  speak,"  he  argued,  and  he  stepped' 
close  and  bent  his  eyes  upon  hers^* 

''Agnes,  before  I  go  you  must  hear  me;  ma/  I 
speak  ?" 

Some  import  of  his  words  terrified  her. 
"Not  now,  not  now,"  she  implored. 
"The  hour  before  I  go,  then  ?"  he  insisted ;  and  she 
had  not  strength  to  say  him  nay. 
*  *  * 

The  ball  was  to  be  in  the  miners'  boarding-house. 
The  blind  fiddler  had  come  from  Yankee  Jim's  and 
been  steamed  dry  after  a  drenching  in  Shirt  Tail  can- 
yon. The  barber  would  come  to  play  the  banjo  after 
the  evening  rush  of  business  was  over.  Blue  Jay  was 
master  of  ceremonies,  and  every  dancer  of  the  Seven 
Devils  divide  was  out,  notwithstanding  the  fierce 
storm.  Every  nationality  and  station  in  life  were  rep- 
resented; each  person  tolerant  of,  indifferent  to,  his 
neighbor's  antecedents. 

Agnes  Bain  was  there,  too,  at  her  husband's  request, 
her  face  the  saddest  in  the  throng.  The  New  York 
cousin  sat  by  the  fiddler,  jotting  down  groupings  and 
faces.  His  eyes  were  oftenest  on  the  pale,  sad  woman 
who  never  glanced  toward  him. 

The  dancing,  under  Blue  Jay's  watch,  did  not  flag 
till  th€  midnight  supper.  After  the  feast,  while  the 
musicians  rested,  the  promenade  and  chorus  began. 
Dancers,   spectators,   whosoever  would,   united  in  the 

18 


circling  round  and  joined  in  the  son^s  thev  lifted — 
oid,  sad-^ongs  mostly  the  singers  had  known  in  far- 
away homes. 

Agnes  Bain  had  once  been  the  soul  of  this  rude 
chorusing,  but  tonight  she  sat  apart,  listening.  A  wail- 
ing cadence  stung  her  to  leave  the  room : 

"We  loved  each  other  then,  Lorena,  j 

More  than  we  ever  dared  to  tell ; 
And  oh,  what  might  have  been,  Lorena, 
Had  but  our  loving  prospered  well." 

I'he  vast,  unthinkable  Might-Have-Been  was  upon 
her,  and  she  seized  a  wrap  and  slipped  out  into  the 
storm.  She  found  comfort  in  the  ra^e  and  passion 
of  the  night.  For  a  moment  they  made  her  forget 
the  words  that  had  assailed  her  ears  for  hours — the 
sentence  asking  her  to  hear  what  she  must  never  al- 
low to  be  said. 

As  she  stood  she  heard  the  storm-choked  peal  ol 
the  midnight  bell  from  the  little  Catholic  chapel  on  the 
hill.  She  glanced  at  its  dim  lights  above  the  flicker- 
ing flames  of  the  mines  about,  and  a  sudden  thought 
came.  She  would  go  and  kneel  at  the  altar  there 
<ind  ask  for  peace. 

She  sped  up  the  hill.  The  rain  spat  in  her  face. 
The  wind  hissed  insults  in  her  ears.  Trees  and  boul- 
ders thwarted  her  path,  and  in  nervous  fatigue  she 
was  crying  like  a  lost  child  when  she  groped  her  way 
through  the  church  gate.  Through  the  window  she 
peered  in  upon  the  absorbed  group ;  some  telling  their 

19 


beads,  their  bodies  swaying  to  the  cadences  of  the 
aves ;  some  thumbing  little,  thick  books ;  some  lost  in 
meditation. 

And  as  she  leaned  she  stood  apart  from  herself  in 
the  spirit,  and  saw  that  she,  with  boasted  ideal  of  duty, 
was  letting  slip  some  anchorage  of  right  and  truth. 
And  then  she  thrust  the  burden  of  guilt  aside.  "But 
it  is  my  only  life — my  fleeting  life — why  live  a  lie? 
I  must  go  far  away  and  forget  the  waste  of  joy,  and 
find  happiness.  I  have  a  right  to  be  happv.  I  will 
not  be  a  fool.  I  will  go — I  must,  I  must,"  and  she 
turned  rebelliously  to  the  right  ag^ain. 

The  gravestones  gleamed  about  her  in  the  beacon 
fires  at  the  door.  She  knew  every  tenant  of  these 
mounds,  and  through  her  tears  and  trembling,  long 
dead  ones  seemed  to  rise  and  press  about  her.  Her 
mother,  no  older  when  she  died  than  she  herself  was 
now,  glided  to  her,  whispering  patience ;  her  father, 
grave  and  tender,  sadly  waved  her  homeward.  Then 
all  the  other  shades  that  she  had  known  came  hover- 
ing nearer.  The  air  grew  full  of  them,  all  beckoning 
and  urging  her  back. 

Their  eyes  gleamed  out  of  the  darkness,  their  whis- 
pers swelled  about  her;  thev  were  touching  her;  they 
were  dragging  her.  She  turned,  shrieking,  and  her 
voice  went  into  the  rage  of  the  night  unheeded  by  man. 

She  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  low  window.  "J^^us, 
Jesus,  is  it  wrong  to  crave  the  beautiful,  happy  world? 
Do  vou  vvant  me  to  stav?  Will  vou  help  me  to  bear 
it?"' 

20 


And  the  aspiration  or  its  answer  hushed  her.  She 
was  a  child  again  in  the  old  convent,  with  her  un- 
stained thoughts  and  her  untroubled  soul. 

The  wind  held  its  breath  a  little  time.  The  priest 
turned  and  blessed  them  all,  and,  nearing  the  chalice, 
stepped  down  and  knelt,  too.  She  knew  it  was  the 
Virgin's  litany:  "Mother,  most  pure,  pray  for  us," 
they  asked. 

"Oh,  pray  for  me,  sweet  maid — mother,"  echoed  the 
bruised  soul  of  the  woman  outside. 

"Lamb  of  God,  who  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the 
world;  spare  us,  oh  Lord,"  they  entreated. 

"Spare  me,"  she  cried.    "Give  me  strength  and  pa- 
tience. Lord ;  I  will  go  back  and  keep  the  oath." 
*  *  * 

They  found  her  on  the  porch,  and  did  not  know 
but  that  she  had  been  with  them. 

"Denis,"  she  said,  as  he  came  out,  "will  you  take 
me  home?" 

"And  proud  of  it,  Alanna,"  he  said,  tenderly. 

"And,  Denis,  when  you  come  back  will  you  step 
into  the  ballroom  and  give  Mr.  Elton  a  note  from 
me?" 

"I  would  walk  miles  and  carry  you  and  your  letther, 
Acushla,"  he  said. 

The  scrawl  read  only: 

"I  have  gone  home.  I  beg  you  never  to  see  me  or 
Speak  to  me  again.    This  is  my  farewell." 

But  before  Denis  had  reached  the  hall    the    ball, 

21 


which  usually  edged  up  to  breakfast  time,  was  at  an 
end,  even  forgotten.  In  the  noisiest  mazes  of  a 
*'Tucker"  quadrille,  a  miner  waving  his  lantern  aloft, 
had  rushed  in  shouting: 

"Hey,  some  of  you  boys!  Come  and  lend  a  hand 
down  in  the  Seven  Devils'  flumes.  We've  killed  our 
thief  at  last,  but  it's  so  infernal  dark  and  slippery 
we've  got  to  have  help  to  pack  him  out!" 

A  score  of  men,  headed  by  Blue  Jay,  Elton  among 
them,  started  down  into  the  heart  of  the  darkness, 
where  the  dead  man  lay. 

The  few  left  in  the  ballroom  huddled  together  in 
groups,  peering  out  into  the  darkness,  straining  their 
ears  to  hear  through  the  now  redoubled  shrieking  of 
the  wind,  and  venturing  theories  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  thief,  and  the  approaching  solution  of  the  long 
mysterious  robbery  of  the  Seven  Devils. 

It  was  growing  a  shade  less  black  in  the  heavens 
when  the  cortege  came  toiling  up  from  the  canyon 
bearing  a  dark  heap,  swathed  in  rubber  overcoats, 
upon  a  rude  stretcher  made  of  young  pines. 

The  bearers  and  the  followers,  slipping,  breathing 
heavily  against  the  hindering  wind,  headed  toward  the 
hall  where  the  delayed  revelers  tarried.  They  laid  the 
stretcher  across  the  benches,  and  spread  the  covers 
decently  over  the  shape.  No  word  had  been  spoken, 
save  Blue  Jay's  hoarse  commands. 

Then  a  woman  said  softly  to  her  husband,  who  had 
gone  down  into  the  canyon:     ''Who  is  it,  John?" 

22 


"My  God,  wife,  haven't  you  all  heard?  It  is  Tom 
Bain  himself.  He  has  been  the  thief  of  the  Seven 
Devils." 

She  hushed  the  man  as  if  the  corpse  might  resent 
the  words,  and  by  one  accord,  from  some  strange  in- 
stinct of  respect  for  the  name  of  death,  they  filed  from 
the  room  and  left  the  dead  alone  under  the  cypress 
boughs  of  the  Christmas  bravery. 

Outside  in  the  dim  light  ot  the  drenched  Christmas 
morning,  the  story  was  told  over  and  over  of  the 
slacking  of  the  water  in  the  sluices,  the  watchman's 
suddenly  reversing  his  beat  and  coming  upon  the 
thief  scraping  the  riffles  into  a  great  buckskin  bag; 
of  the  quick,  sure  aim  at  the  red  bull's-eye  slung  upon 
the  thief's  breast,  and  of  the  flash  of  the  watchman's 
lantern  into  the  dead  face  of  Tom  Bain,  the  super- 
intendent of  the  mine,  the  thief  of  the  Seven  Devils. 

Blue  Jay  alone  had  no  time  for  idle  gossip.  With 
more  than  pious  resignation  he  directed  the  laying  out 
of  the  corpse,  the  making  of  the  coffin.  It  puzzled 
him  most  to  know  how  to  tell  the  tidings  to  the  -.vife. 
Where  was  the  New  York  cousin?  Denis  knew.  He 
had  seen  Elton  reading  Agnes'  note  by  the  flickering 
pitch  fire  on  the  hill,  even  as  the  word  was  passed 
that  Bain  was  the  corpse  below.  He  had  seen  the 
white  awe  on  the  man's  face  as  though  crouching  be- 
fore the  judgment-seat.  He  had  seen  him  leave  the 
crowd  for  his  own  room,  saying  only,  ''You  go  to 
her,  Denis,  and  keep  them  all  away  from  her  till  she 

23 


can  bear  to  see  some  woman." 

It  was  Denis  who  had  been  first  to  tell  her  of  her 
father's  death,  who  now  roused  her  from  a  feverish 
stupor  to  tell  her  of  her  husband's  death  and  disgrace. 

She  heard  aghast.  She  sobbed  in  some  hysterical 
mood  of  pity  for  herself  and  the  dead,  and  moaned,  "I 
am  so  deeply  glad  that  I  made  up  my  mind  before  I 
knew.    Down  in  my  heart  I  always  meant  to  be  true." 

But  Denis  would  not  seem  to  understand.  "Sure 
we  all  knew  you  never  thought  him  a  scoundhril,  an* 
a  faithfuller  wife  no  man  iver  had.  But  rest  you 
now." 

He  tarried  about  the  house  until  the  time  to  lead  the 
wife  to  the  funeral  in  the  afternoon. 

Blue  Jay  had  hurried  the  inquest  through.  The 
stored-up  gold  in  hundreds  of  ounces  had  been  found. 
A  heavy  snowstorm  had  begun,  and  all  agreed  that 
the  grave  might  better  take  the  unfortunate  dead  at 
once.  So  in  the  white  of  the  Christmas  afternoon, 
under  the  bending  branches  of  the  pines,  they  gath- 
ered about  the  coffin.  The  male  quartet  of  the  Boom- 
erang saloon  chanted  a  solumn  hymn  proclaiming 
mercy  beyond  weight  of  sin,  promising  sins  as  crimson 
to  be  made  white  as  snow.  When  they  had  done,  the 
kinsman  Elton  stepped  to  the  coffin-head,  and  in  the 
hush  said: 

"Friends,  I  have  been  harsher  than  any  of  you  in 
my  past  judgment  of  our  dead.  We  need  not  gloss  his 
sins  now,  but  we  may  all  have  been  too  hard  on  him. 

24 


There  is  a  terrible  taint  of  madness  in  his  mother's 
family,  and  the  poison  may  have  begun  to  work  ,in 
his  blood. 

"None  here  have  noble  deeds  of  his  to  sound,  but 
back  in  a  New  York  village  I  know  a  young  man  will 
say,  'He  saved  my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own  when  I, 
a  little  child,  had  sunk  through  the  rotten  ice/  And 
an  old  woman,  his  insane  mother's  nurse,  will  weep 
and  say,  'He  has  been  my  only  support  for  years.' 
Let  us  think  on  these  things,  friends,  and  try  to  for- 
get the  blackness  of  the  last.  May  God  have  mercy 
on  his  soul." 

They  had  uncovered  their  heads  to  the  snow  as  he 
spoke.  Pity  stirred  in  every  heart.  Blue  Jay  thought 
as  he  helped  heap  the  clay  upon  the  coffin:  "This  is 
the  minute  I  used  to  pray  for,  but  I  was  too  almighty 
hard  and  fast,  I  guess.  I'll  make  a  memorandy  to 
'pologize  to  him  on  the  Judgment  Day,  and  he  kin 
lick  me  for  it  if  his  temper  ain't  improved  by  then." 

Denis  was  on  his  knees  against  the  next  grave,  his 
lips  trembling  in  prayer  for  the  living  and  the  dead. 
He  knew  that  Elton  must  start  this  hour  for  the  East, 
and  he  felt  the  crisis  in  two  lives  as  the  widow  of  the 
dead  and  the  dead's  young  kinsman  met  for  the  first 
time  since  the  death,  parted  now  before  them  all  with 
only  one  long  look  and  the  simple,  immemorial  part- 
ing word,  "GoQd-by." 

Catherine  Markham. 

25 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  SHOOTING  STAR 


ORGOTTEN  sunlight  shone  upon  the  San 
Gabriel  uplands,  and  the  uplands  opened 
forgotten  poppies  to  the  sun.  It  was  a 
miracle  that  enkindling  sun,  those  rekind- 
led mesas,  and  under  the  sun,  across  the  mesa-trails, 
rode  a  boy  with  the  sunlight  in  his  eyes  and  a  shoot- 
ing-star in  his  button-hole.  His  mare  galloped  against 
a  lilting  breeze,  and  he  urged  her  on.  Across  fifty 
miles  he  heard  a  girl's  voice  singing  in  the  sunlight, 
across  fifty  miles  he  saw  the  sunlight  on  her  hair. 
The  sound  and  the  sight  made  him  throw  himself  back 
in  his  saddle  and  give  a  long,  low,  exultant  cry.  Then 
he  bent  forward  again  and  spurred  on  his  mare. 

Beside  the  sunshine  and  the  golden  meadows  there 
were  other  things  along  his  way :  grazing  cattle ;  flocks 
of  wild  birds ;  ground  squirrels  on  their  hillocks ;  an 
occasional  red-tiled  adobe ;  an  occasional  horseman,  his 
lariat  round  his  saddle-horn ;  the  broad,  low  bell  tower 
of  San  Gabriel  in  the  distance ;  canyons,  and  foot-hills, 
precipitous  trails,  and  open  pasture  land,  and  brown 
vineyards,  and  gray-green  olive-groves,  and  violet  Sier- 
ras. The  boy  thought  that  he  saw  them  all  quite  plain- 
ly.    ''What  a  heavenly  day !"  he  thought  that  he  heard 

27 


himself  saying  to  himself.  In  reality  his  pulse  beat 
only  to  one  tune — "Eulalie !  Eulalie !" 

The  horsemen  he  met  waved  their  hats,  and  he  waved 
his  in  return.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  very 
joyous,  those  horsemen.  The  cattle,  the  ground-squir- 
rels, the  violet  Sierras,  were  joyous,  too.  From  one 
of  the  red-tiled  adobes  a  woman  ran  out  on  the  porch 
and  waved  a  scarlet  reboso  to  him  as  he  passed,  calling 
out  a  greeting.  He  did  not  wait  to  catch  the  greeting, 
he  only  bowed  low  in  his  saddle  and  fled  faster.  She 
must  be  aware,  that  woman,  that  he  was  bound  on 
weighty  business,  aflfairs  of  the  universe  that  brooked 
no  delay.  The  woman  laughed  when  she  saw  that 
he  would  not  stop.  Her  laughter  sounded  pleasant 
in  his  receding  ears.  She  knew,  of  course  she  knew, 
where  he  was  going,  and  for  what.  It  seemed  the  one 
patent  fact.  Indeed,  if  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him 
that  any  one  solitary  object  along  his  road  was  not 
fully  alive  to  his  errand,  he  would  have  drawn  rein 
and  told  that  object,  bird,  or  beast,  or  boulder.  But 
it  never  entered  his  head.  Again  he  flung  himself 
back  in  the  saddle  and  uttered  that  long,  lov/,  melo- 
dious shout. 

Later  on,  in  the  heart  of  a  canyon,  he  found  himself 
singing.  His  mare  drew  down  to  the  bed  of  the 
stream  to  drink.  He  let  the  reins  fall  loose  on  her 
neck  and  watched  her.  How  delightful  it  was  to  see 
a  horse  drink !  What  bright  drops  of  water  dripped 
from  her  mouth  !    It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  like 

28 


a  drink,  also,  before  he  ate  his  tortilla,  and,  slipping 
from  the  saddle,  he  knelt  down  and  dipped  his  hol- 
lowed palm  into  the  brook.  He  gave  the  shooting- 
star  a  drink,  too,  and  kissed  its  purple  pink  petals  when 
he  put  it  back  into  its  place. 

"Eulalie!"  he  said. 

When  he  remounted,  his  mood  was  changed.  Rev- 
erie took  possession  of  him.  Outside,  it  was  fierce 
noonday  by  this  time.  Here,  under  the  sycamores, 
shadows  played.  His  need  for  haste  vanished.  He 
dallied  with  his  delight.  It  was  budded.  It  was  blos- 
somed. How  gracious  was  this  hour  before  it  was 
plucked !  Infinite  peace  brooded  upon  it,  and  through 
the  peace  he  looked  out  upon  eternity.  The  song  died 
upon  his  lips.     He  crossed  himself  reverently. 

''Madre  de  Dios,  be  good  to  her — now,  and  at  the 
hour  of  her  death.     Amen." 

After  this,  there  was  silence  in  his  soul.  The  word 
Death,  which  had  come  to  him  with  the  instinctive 
ending  of  his  prayer,  rested  upon  him  tenderly.  He 
saw  it  shining,  far-off,  down  the  years,  a  thing  inde- 
scribably beautiful,  indescribably  remote.  Her  Death ! 
He  bowed  his  head  and  crossed  himself  again,  awe- 
stricken.  When  he  looked  up,  there  were  tears  brim- 
ming his  eyes,  but  they  were  tears  of  joy.  The  reality 
of  life  welled  to  flood-tide  for  that  passing  shadow. 

He  came  out  from  the  canyon  upon  the  open  country 
again.  Before  him  stretched  the  King's  Highway. 
Mid-day  pulsated  in  a  haze  of  heat  upon  the  land. 

29 


The  haze  was  more  blinding  than  darkness.  It  daz- 
zled his  eyes.  It  benumbed  his  soul.  His  senses  be- 
came conscious  of  certain  annoying  things — one,  the 
heavier  loping  of  his  mare ;  another,  the  dust  of  the 
road.  He  had  on  a  fine,  new  suit — a  silver  braided 
sombrero,  a  green  velvet  jacket.  He  took  ofiF  the 
sombrero  and  dusted  it  carefully.  ^'Diablo!"  he  ejac- 
ulated, **I  shall  look  like  a  sheep-herder!" 

Then  he  dusted  the  velvet  jacket  carefully,  too,  and, 
chancing  to  brush  against  the  shooting-star,  his  frown 
vanished. 

Turning  his  mare  from  out  the  King's  Highway,  he 
pricked  his  path  along  less-frequented  trails.  They 
led  him  past  the  outskirts  of  the  white  pueblo  of  Los 
Angeles,  over  open  pasture  lands,  by  short  cuts  stead- 
ily downward  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea. 

He  galloped  on,  singing  to  himself  again.  Mid-day 
became  afternoon.  Afternoon  waxed  and  waned. 
Shadows  of  live-oaks  lengthened  across  the  meadows. 
The  atmosphere  grew^  clearer,  the  air  cooler,  the  scent 
of  the  wind  salt.  By  and  by  he  was  riding  among 
salt-marshes.  Tremulous  glory  of  sunet  played  over 
the  shallow  tide-waters  that  eddied  in  and  out  among 
their  reeds,  and  even  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  hori- 
zon of  the  west,  the  fiery  flower  of  the  sun  melted  into 
liquid  splendor  of  rose  and  amber  and  olivine,  and 
went  out. 

Before  him  lay  the  twilit  Pacific.  Behind  him 
loomed   the  twilit   Sierras.     In   the   still,   green   dusk 

30 


blossomed  the  first  star.  Little  by  little  the  sky  was 
full  of  stars,  and  it  was  night.  The  stars  in  the  sky 
were  suns,  but  there  were  also  lesser  stars  on  earth. 
At  a  turn  of  the  road,  now  winding  among  sandy  hills, 
they  leaped  into  being,  scarcely  a  mile  ahead.  The 
road  led  through  young  almond  orchards,  straight 
onward  to  a  house,  and  the  house  was  a  house  of 
stars.  They  moved,  they  twinkled,  they  glowed,  they 
increased,  they  multiplied — a  festival  of  lights !  The 
mare  saw  them,  too.  Under  the  sudden  spur,  her 
gallop  becarrie  a  race;  her  race,  a  madness.  The  boy 
sat  like  a  statue.  Only,  his  pluses  throbbed.  Only, 
his  eyes  shone. 

A   half-mile a   quarter a   hundred    rods 

he  saw  gay  figures  in  the  light,  he  heard  guitars, 

songs,  laughter,  the  neighing  of  tethered  horses,  the 
echo  of  bantered  speech. 

Abruptly  he  wheeled  from  the  road  to  the  by-paths 
of  the  orchard.  "The  old  way  once  yet,  Eulalie!"  he 
whispered,  and  let  the  reins  fall  loose.  The  mare 
seemed  to  know  the  by-paths  well.  She  galloped  un- 
hesitatingly on.  It  was  very  dark  under  the  trees. 
The  almond-blossoms  brushed  against  his  face.  He 
reached  up  his  hand 

"Pepe!" — a  hushed  cry,  but  it  threw  the  mare  back 
on  her  haunches. 

'Tepe!" — the  voice  had  a  ring  of  laughter  in  it. 
"Is  it  so  wicked  for  me  to  come  to  meet  you,  that  you 
have  to  ride  right  over  me,  me  in  my  wedding  gown  ?" 

31 


On  his  knees  on  the  ground,  the  boy  pressed  two 
slim,  brown  hands  to  his  breast. 

"Ay,  Pepe!" 

Then,  with  feigning  of  deep  wonder,  "What  is  this 
queer  thing  I  feel  against  your  heart?" 

"Only  a  little  star  of  earth,  querida,  to  remind  a 
miserable  sinner  of  his  Star-on-high." 

"Poor  soul!  have  you  lost  your  sweetheart?" 

"No,  my  Star-on-high,  I  kneel  before  her  now." 

"Then  she  is  only  a  star  of  earth,  after  all,  very 
jealous  of  that  other  star !  How  long  has  it  been  lying 
there,  too  sweet?" 

"All  day — too  sweet  by  love  of  you,  its  food  and 
drink." 

"One  little  day!  Don't  be  so  proud!  There  are 
all  the  days  of  all  the  years  to  come." 

"It  will  still  smell  sweet." 

"Lover's  words !  I  am  wiser,  I  have  listened  to  the 
duenas.     Give  me  the  star  and  let  me  go" — 

"Not  yet,  my  Star" — 

"Yes,  now,  this  minute!  The  duenas  will  pass 
judgment  on  more  than  my  gown!  Give  me  my 
star"— 

5iv  JjC  5JC  5^C  3|C  S|C 

"Give  me  my  shooting-star,  great-grandfather! 
You've  been  holding  it  most  an  hour!"  The  child  at 
the  old  man's  knee  shifted  her  weight  impatiently 
from  one  foot  to  the  other.  The  blue  eyes  in  her 
brown  face  betrayed  a  strain  of  Saxon  blood. 

32 


The  old  man  started.  He  rubbed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes. 

"So  long  as  that,  little  Eulalie?"  he  answered  quiz- 
zically in  the  same  tongue."  But,  do  you  know,  I 
thought  myself  that  it  had  been  a  whole  day!" 

"Why,  it  couldn't  be  that!  Manuel  brought  it  to 
me  from  the  mountains  this  morning,  when  he  came 
down  to  Wilmington  on  the  train,  and  it's  morning 
yet.  I  wish  they  grew  down  here  by  the  sea !  Give  it 
back  to  me  great-grandfather — it  isn't  yours  to  keep!" 

The  old  man  folded  the  stalk  into  the  out-stretched 
hand.  From  the  porch  of  the  crumbling  adobe  where 
he  sat,  a  shadow  among  shadows,  he  pointed  to  the 
open  court.  Beyond  the  court-yard  glowed  the  fresh, 
spring  glory  of  ancient  almond  orchards,  and  old  pep- 
per-tree boughs  shifted  an  illusive  and  delicate  lace- 
tracery  of  sun  and  shade  over  its  sunken  flag-stones. 
Under  the  pepper  trees,  her  wrinkled  face  a  more  deli- 
cate and  illusive  lace-tracery  still,  more  of  the  sun  and 
shade  of  four-score  years,  dozed  a  little,  old  grandma. 

"Take  the  posy  to  your  great-grandmother,  little 
Eulalie,"  he  said,  "and  tell  her" — his  voice  melted  into 
the  softer  syllables  of  Spain,  "that  great-grandfather — 
no,  no! — tell  her  that  Pepe  sends  his  love,  and  says  to 
see  the  shooting-star,  and  to  smell,  it  still  is  sweet." 

The  blue  eyes  rounded.  "What  do  you  mean,  great- 
grandfather ?"  , 

The  old  man's  withered  fingers  patted  the  rounded 
cheek.     He  smiled  tremulously. 

"Great-grandmother  knows,"  he  said. 

LlIvLIAN    CORBETT    BaRNES. 
33 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN. 

A  Very  Modern  Tragedy. 
ISS  Dean  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  teakwood 
stool  and  gazed  at  him  in  a  way  that  was 
unflinchingly  adoring, — yet  he,  with  avert- 
ed eyes,  continued  silent  and  placid. 
And  thus  ended  his  first  evening  in  The  Den,     al- 
though the  soft  firelight  was  a  witchery. 

He  was  not  Miss  Dean's  very  first  love.  He  was 
merely  one  of  a  long  series  and  it  is  wholly  probable 
that  she  had  gazed  at  all  his  predecessors  in  the  same 
frankly  worshipful  way.  Perhaps  Miss  Dean  was  an 
impulsivist.  At  any  rate,  the  moment,  her  eyes  first 
beheld  him,  she  had  gasped  undisguisedly  and  clasped 
together  her  jewelled  hands  in  a  dramatic  and  beauti- 
ful ecstasy  of  appreciation.  And  her  friends  had 
smiled,  in  a  certain,  slow  way, —  but  about  that  she 
did  not  care  in  the  least,  as  she  meant  to  please  her- 
self in  such  a  matter.     She  always  had. 

It  had  been  different  with  him.  He  had  never 
cared  for  any  man  except  himself  and  certainly  for  no 
woman — women  are  so  immeasurably  inferior !  He 
had  not  even  glanced  at  this  ridicuously  rich  American 
girl  until,  on  that  fateful  afternoon,  she  had  singled 
him  out  from  the  rest  of  his  companions  and  had  made 

35 


such  a  great  to-do  over  him,  right  there  before  them 
all.  Then,  in  astonishment  he  had  to  look  at  her. 
Yet  it  had  proved  worth  his  while.  It  was  said  that 
Miss  Dean  was  always  a  pleasing  surprise  to  every- 
body, including  herself,  and  it  is  certain  that  in  look- 
ing at  her  lie  forgot  to  remember  that  all  demonstratiye- 
ness  is  plebeian — he  forgot  to  be  repelled  by  even  the 
American  variety.  But  the  intensity  and  the  quality 
of  this  particular  lady's  appreciation  were  so  flatter- 
ingly evident  and  so  agreeably  different  from  all  oth- 
ers !  One  properly  associated  her  expressions  with 
the  most  expensive  incense — clouds  and  clouds  of  it 
and   acceptable   even   in   high   places. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  trouble  to  assist  in  the  con- 
versation. He  merely  listened  and  smiled  his  one 
little  smile  that,  besides  being  an  enigma,  was  always 
a  fascination.  And  Miss  Dean,  fully  realizing  that 
she  had  captured  a  great  prize,  loudly  proclaimed  her- 
self perfectly  happy  and  content  at  last. 

For  was  he  not  a  magnificent  Japanese  Daimio, 
cleverly  carved  from  a  single  piece  of  fine  ivory? 
Was  not  the  crest  of  the  haughty  and  powerful  Tok- 
ugawas  on  his  sleeves? 

In  The  Den  of  this  modern  maiden,  there  was  a 
jumble  of  many,  many  things, — rare,  curious,  expen- 
sive things, — things  that  Miss  Dean  firmly  believed 
were  beautiful,  tolerating  no  contrary  argument — 
things  from  The  East  and  The  West,  from  The  North 
and  The  South- — and  a  sudden  view  had  been  known  to 

36 


make  strong  men  dumb  or  giddy.  If,  indeed,  one 
sometimes  contrived  to  get  himself  out  of  The  Den 
without  upsetting  a  Louis  Sixteenth,  or  a  Martha 
Washington  or  an  Art  Nouveau  table, — or  without 
totally  wrecking  the  lot  of  foreign  dago  bric-a-brac 
(more  appalling  to  him  than  many  men  in  battle 
array),  he  drew  a  deep  breath  and  murmured  softly 
to  himself  something  that  might  have  been  interpreted 
as  prayer.  But  Miss  Dean's  real  friends  seemed  always 
willing  to  make  oath  and  depose  that  The  Arrange- 
ment was  very  good  and  tremendously  artistic  and  so 
perfectly  comfortable  and  so  delightfully  simple !  What 
the  others  said  does  not  matter.  Yet,  to  The  Daimio 
from  old  Kyoto,  it  was  an  amazement  and  a  sorrow; 
for  in  such  a  place  it  was  not  possible  to  succeed  in 
thinking  of  nothing  and,  alas!  there  was  no  beautiful 
little  image  of  the  good  Buddha  in  The  Den,  to  see 
and  pity.  Many  were  the  years  that  The  Daimio 
had  been  accustomed  to  tokonamas  in  Japanese  pal- 
aces, yet  The  Den,  the  treasure-room,  of  this  strange 
woman-creature  he  found  incomprehensible.  It  was 
much  like  a  shop  or  a  warehouse. 

He  had  presupposed  that  when  he  arrived  he  would 
be  the  only  object  d'art — that  any  predecessors  would 
be  promptly  wrapped  in  their  brocades  and  sent  to 
the  godown.  It  had  always  been  that  way  in  Old 
Japan. 

But  it  was  not  so  in  Miss  Dean's  Den  and  he  pond- 
ered long  and  long  and  long.     In  time,  his  comfort- 

37 

dHk27 


able  philosophy  taught  him  that  it  was  a  sufficient  dis- 
tinction merely  to  be  one  of  the  unnumbered  and  ever- 
present  treasures  of  such  a  person  as  Miss  Dean,  al- 
though she  knew  nothing  of  the  beautifully  refined 
enthusiasms  of  Dai  Nippon  and  cared  less.  It  is  also 
true  that  he — a  daimio  of  The  Tokugawas — soon  per- 
mitted himself  to  become  entirely  content  with  the 
adoration  of  this  young  woman. 

Who  The  Others  all  were  he  had  not  an  idea, — they 
who  were  posing  and  frolicking  about  everywhere — 
in  cabinets  and  on  low  tables  and  high  shelves.  Yet 
he  frequently  bowed,  touching  his  forehead  to  the 
mantel-shelf  and  drawing  in  his  breath  in  the  politest 
way  in  the  world.  In  days  gone  by,  the  faultless 
elegance  of  his  manners  at  flower  picnics  and  tea- 
ceremonies  had  won  him  the  distinguished  admiration 
of  two  shoguns  and  one  heaven-born  mikado.  Oh! 
the  magnificence  of  those  old  days  in  august  Japan! 
But,  very  strangely,  these  of  The  West  did  not  seem 
to  understand  the  etiquette  of  princes;  his  most  elab- 
orate hisses  and  bows  were  acknowledged  with  storms 
of  anger  and  derision,  with  sneers  and  ahas!  They 
behaved  like  coolies  in  a  riot.  Yet  The  Daimio  only 
haughtily  narrowed  his  eyes  and  privately  swore  to 
maintain  for  ten  thousand  years  the  demeanor  of  a 
noble,  though  in  the  very  midst  of  foreign-devils.  And, 
in  his  own  inimitably  elegant  and  self-contained  man- 
ner, he  continued  to  kneel  on  the  shutenwood  pedestal, 
— his  background  a  wonderful  screen  from  a  shogun's 

38 


godown  (much  faded  but  still  beautiful  with  pine 
trees  and  cherry  bloom  and  clouds  of  golden  mist  and 
a  great  artist's  autograph),  his  nearest  neighbors  a 
silly  pink-and-gilt  vase  and  an  incomprehensible,  un- 
sympathetic clock  from  a  country  called  France. 

In  such  an  environment,  of  course,  there  were  oppor- 
tunities for  great  unhappiness. 

The  Others  were  always  quibbling  and  wrangling, 
quite  like  'rickshaw-men  and  sampan-men — especially 
the  little  Watteau  shepherds  and  the  big  warriors  on 
the  blue  jar.  It  was  disgraceful  the  way  they  always 
went  on  from  midnight  to  daybreak,  truly  disgraceful ! 
Then  there  was  a  plaster  Hermes  and  a  Parian  marble 
Shakespeare  and  a  black  soapstone  Osiris, — a  trio  sin- 
fully resentful  of  Miss  Dean's  love  for  The  Daimio. 
Shakspeare  swore  long  and  strange  oaths  and  Osiris 
roared  most  terribly  at  him ;  but  Hei  mes  was  really  the 
most  trying — for  his  puns  and  jests  were  unending. 
Then,  too,  there  was  a  multitude  of  little  unknowns 
that  sneered  by  companies  and  another  multitude  that 
made  terrifying  faces  at  him  en  masse.  But,  and  this 
is  the  truth, — as  any  of  the  survivors  will  bear  wit- 
ness,— the  patient,  high-bred  smile  of  The  Daimio 
never  varied. 

There  was  but  one  in  the  whole  Den  who  impressed 
him  as  being  something  of  a  courteous  gentleman  and 
he  was  just  a  poster-man  on  the  wall  by  The  Favorite 
Window-seat.  Erect,  broad-shouldered,  with  a  love- 
ly mass  of  cadmium-yellow  hair  and  golf-clothes  of 

39 


purple  and  turquoise,  he  was  just  the  man  to  compel 
attention  in  any  Den, — leaning  as  he  always  did  against 
a  cobalt-green  and  burnt-orange  sunset.  Once  upon 
a  time,  but  that  was  weeks  before,  Miss  Dean  had 
adored  him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  The  Others.  Every- 
body said  so.  And  not  on  account  of  the  sunset 
either  (there  were  other  sunsets  in  The  Den)  but  be- 
cause her  admiration  was  limited  to  blondes  and  she 
had  a  personal  theory  that  all  little  men  were  domi- 
neering; certainly,  The  Poster  Man  was  big  enough 
to  have  big  ideas  even  on  the  woman  question — 
and  that  he  was  the  most  magnificent  of  blondes,  there 
was  none  to  dispute.  Therefore  did  he  consider  him- 
self eminently  suitable.  However,  as  he  had  no  eyes 
at  all  (nor  any  facial  features  to  speak  of),  Miss  Dean 
early  lapsed  into  indifference.  She  forgot  very  soon 
that  he  was  a  great  thing  in  the  way  of  a  flat-tone 
effect.  And  he,  in  a  repressed  manner  that  w^as  ad- 
mirable, mourned  and  mourned  and  then  he  began  to 
fade  dreadfully.  So  the  arrival  and  enshrinement  of 
The  Daimio  from  Japan  was  as  nothing  to  him. 

Time  in  The  Den  passed  swiftly.  It  was  marred 
only  by  the  elegant  hisses  of  the  Oriental  prince  and 
the  responsive  contumelies  of  the  very  advanced  and 
surpassingly  rude  Occidentals.  Yet,  when  Miss  Dean 
would  rush  into  the  room  for  a  perfectly  quiet  half- 
hour  before  dinner,  or  for  a  few  minutes  just  before 
going  out  for  the  evening,  there  would  always  be  an 
instantaneous,   a  perfect  peace  and  all  w^ould   imme- 

40 


diately  look  their  very  best.  How  her  eyes  would 
shine  with  deep,  quiet  joy  of  appreciation  and  possess- 
ion! She  would  stretch  her  glittering  fingers  to  the 
fire  and  glance  slowly  about  at  them  all,  over  and  over 
again,  and  smile  oh!  so  happily!  And  how  exceed- 
ing great  was  their  happiness  that  moment! 

It  is  certain  that  in  those  last  days  her  eyes  rested 
longest  and  most  caressingly  upon  The  Daimio ;  some- 
times she  would  even  stand  before  his  shelf  and  say 
so  very  impassionedly :  "Oh!  you  dear,  dear  thing! 
I'm  so  glad  I  found  you !  You're  the  very  best  thing 
in  all  Los  Angeles!  You  are  perfectly  adorable!  Do 
you  know  it?"  Naturally,  The  Daimio's  happiness 
was  then  too  great  for  expression,  so  he  continued  to 
say  nothing  to  the  lady. 

To  The  Others  partialitly  of  this  degree  was  more 
than  bitter  and  when  Miss  Dean  had  gone  and  the 
fire  had  burned  low  and  then  died  away  and  the  clock 
had  said — "Midnight !  Speak-all-who-will !"  —  there 
would  be  perfectly  terrible  outbursts  of  resentment  and 
anger — regular  scenes  with  missiles,  jeers,  sobs,  and 
anathemas  of  many  historic  varieties.  Yet,  even  at 
these  times.  The  Daimio  never  condescended  to  retort ; 
his  classic  features  never  lessened  in  their  beautiful, 
Buddha-like  calmness  and  passivity — yet  in  his  heart 
there  was  great  contempt,  as  well  as  the  splendid  cour- 
age of  the  mother-carp  swimming  agaist  the  fierce 
current. 

There  was,  also,  much  happiness 

41 


One  day,  and  without  any  warning,  Felicita  The 
Maid  came  in  and  locked  all  the  windows  and  pulled 
down  all  the  shades.  After  that  came  days,  even  weeks, 
of  total  darkness. 

No  one  dreamed  what  it  signified.  The  gloom,  the 
stillness,  the  dust,  the  slight  were  maddening  and  un- 
precedented; naturally  enough  their  faces  took  on 
new  lines  and  crackles  with  the  worry  of  it  and  they 
sank  way  down  into  the  depths  of  sorrow  and  market- 
value.  They  made  no  secret  of  their  suffering,  they 
moped  openly, — and  at  last  Misery  made  of  them  all 
very  good  comrades. 

Finally,  there  came  an  evening  with  Miss  Dean's 
voice  in  the  hall.  But  she  did  not  rush  into  The  Den, 
she  did  not  even  peep  in  at  the  door.  What  did  it 
mean? 

A  day  dragged  by,  then  an  entire  week. 

And  yet  it  seemed  that  Miss  Dean  was  happy — im- 
moderately happy — because  she  talked  and  she  laughed 
and  she  hummed  gay  little  tunes  as  she  passed  by  The 
Den.  What  could  it  mean?  Were  they  all  despised? 
Or  forgotten?  The  suspense  was  heart-breaking. 
Yet  were  none  of  them  loudly  resentful  of  the  neglect 
and  their  enforced  coats  of  dust;  each  was  reasonably 
patient  and  oh,  so  determinedly  hopeful! 

Miss  Dean  did  rush  into  The  Den  one  morning. 

The  happiness  of  that  moment  should  have  been  per- 
fect and  unending,  but  alas !  it  was  not  perfect  and  it 
was  brief.     A  man  came  in  with  her ! 

42 


Now  he  was  not  beautiful  like  Hermes  and  The 
Greek  Warriors;  he  was  not  graceful  and  pleasingly 
dressed  like  pink  Watteaus ;  nor  was  his  appearance 
quaint,  nor  athletic,  nor  aristocratic.  The  Man  was 
merely  little  and  fat  and  red-faced  and,  instead  of 
much  lovely  cadmium-yellow  hair,  his  head  was 
adorned  with  a  thin  fringe  of  iron-gray.  And  he 
stared  about,  stupidly,  inappreciatively. 

Where  had  Miss  Dean  found  The  Man?  Why  had 
she  brought  him  there?  Plainly,  he  was  one  of  the 
utterly  impossibles — he  was  not  the  type  to  be  feared ! 
And  yet — 

Perfectly  oblivious  of  his  nearness.  Miss  Dean  at 
once  sank  among  the  cushions  of  The  Favorite  Win- 
dow- seat,  next  to  the  pale-blue  Poster  Man,  who  (but 
it  was  not  generally  observed)  hastily  disengaged  him- 
self from  the  tack  in  the  wall  and  plunged  straight 
through  the  open  window  to  the  rain-wet  garden  be- 
low. But  his  stratagem  was  as  vain  as  desperate. 
Miss  Dean  did  indeed  glance  carelessly  at  him  but  any 
desire  to  rescue,  any  concern  in  the  outcome  of  his 
rash  move,  was  not  evinced  by  the  lifting  of  a  finger  or 
an  eyebrow.  The  Others  held  their  breath  in  aston- 
ishment at  this  and  at  the  wholly  undecorative  intruder 
— and  the  agony  was  theirs  of  uncertainty  as  to  Miss 
Dean's  intentions. 

In  a  possessive  way  that  was  more  than  exasperating. 
The  Man  had  at  once  thrown  up  the  shades  and  opened 
the  windows  and  then,  having  tripped  over  a  manda- 

43 


rin's  lunch-box,  two  Indian  baskets  and  a  bronze  hi- 
bachi,  he  seated  himself  upon  a  frail,  little  Vernis- 
Martin  table  and  began  to  swing  his  feet. 

Then  he  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  yawned 
and  yawned  and  yawned;  he  also  stared  hatefully  at 
them  all. 

Many  long  minutes  elapsed — then  The  Man  spoke. 
He  said:  ''Well,  Little  Girl,  you've  got  an  awful  lot 
of  old  junk  crammed  in  here!     Haven't  you?" 

And  Miss  Dean  laughed! 

To  be  sure,  it  is  an  incredibility  but  Miss  Dean 
The  Enthusiast,  Miss  Dean  The  Appreciative  One, 
really  did  laugh — she  laughed  merrily  at  The  Man's 
words — flippant,  pernicious  words  !  And  alas !  and 
alas!  her  answer  (is  there  one  so  faithless  as  to  believe 
it?)  was  this:  "Yes,  Billy  dear!  But  it'll  make  just 
a  perfectly  sweet  smoking-room  for  you !  We  can 
store  all  this  truck,  you  know,  or  give  it  away  to  some- 
body !     Shall  we — " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  The  Daimio  understood 
it  all — everything.  He  comprehended  at  last  the 
depth  of  Miss  Dean's  heartlessness  and  abominable 
perfidy. 

Promptly,  bravely,  he  determined  to  die — so  seek 
his  lotus-flower  in  Paradise  alone!  The  Honorable 
Death  of  Old  Japan  was  not  expedient — it  could  not  be 
his — yet  not  for  one  little  instant  did  he  waver,  neither 
did  he  repine;  and,  before  The  Man  could  state  his 
ignoble  preference,  The  Daimio  (a  prince  of  The  Tok- 

44 


ugawas!)  cleverly  managed  to  so  leap  from  his  shelf 
that  he  was  dashed  into  a  million  infinitesimal  bits  of 
ivory,  at  Miss  Dean's  very  feet. 

But  Miss  Dean  was  saying:  "Give  it  away?  Very 
well,  you  darling,  old  dear!  Fm  awfully  sick  of  the 
whole  outfit!" 

And  this  was  ever  the  way  of  a  woman. 


Olive  Percival. 

45 


SUSY. 


USY    was    already    fifty,    but    she    was    still 
straight   and   white   as  the  yucca,   with   the 
flash  of  the  near  star  in  her  brown  eye  and 
the  lone,  clear  call  of  the  desert-bird  in  her 
voice. 

Yet  the  spirit  of  Youth,  buoyant  as  the  sea  breeze 
(which  Susy  had  never  felt),  the  spirit  of  Youth,  that 
had  once  sung  its  wild,  undaunted  carol  through  Susy's 
being — had  fled.  This  bright  comrade  had  been  de- 
ceiving Susy  all  the  long  uneventful  years.  One  Au- 
gust day,  as  she  sat  in  the  shadowy  veranda,  the 
peaches  and  nectarines,  luscious  as  the  faces  of  Cor- 
reggio's  cherubs,  dropping  in  the  orchard  beyond, 
there  in  the  tense  heat  of  mid-summer  and  desert  si- 
lentness,  Susy  knew  that  her  old  comrade  had  left 
her.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  old,  felt  that  she  might 
have  been  more  than  she  was. 

Susy's  uncle  in  Colorado  had  set  his  heart  upon 
educating  her.  When  she  was  sixteen,  he  had  sud- 
denly died  without  a  will  and  his  money  went  to  nearer 
folk  than  Susy.  She  became  head-waitress  in  the  sta- 
tion eating-house  at  Pueblo.  In  six  months  she  was 
married.     Her  husband's  name  was  Walter  Head.  He 

47 


was  an  anaemic  bachelor,  on  his  way  to  New  Mex- 
ico to  rejuvenate  blood  and  nerves.  Walter  married 
because  he  wanted  a  wife.  Just  what  this  meant  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find  out.  The  thought  of 
oflfspring  had  long  ago  faded  from  his  mind,  and  the 
idea  of  a  wife  as  a  companion  or  drudge  had  not 
been  evolved.  Walter  never  talked  with  Susy  beyond 
the  space  of  time  it  took  to  eat  a  hurried  meal,  so  of 
what  use  was  her  pretty  girlish  prattle?  On  the  New 
Mexico  ranch  she  had  ranch-hands  at  her  command 
and  a  sturdy  Mexican  woman  in  the  kitchen ;  certainly 
there  was  nothing  parsimonious  about  Walter  Head. 
To  the  end  of  her  days  Susy  never  knew  what  had 
prompted  "Walt"  to  speak  to  her  as  she  brought  him 
a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  station-restaurant,  following 
this  overture  by  the  gift  of  a  box  of  candy.  For  a 
week  he  remained  in  Pueblo,  then  carried  her  off,  after 
the  ceremony  in  the  shabby  dining-room,  when  she 
and  the  Mormon  preacher  danced. 

That  wedding-night  Youth,  gaillard  and  free,  made 
a  pact  with  Susy.  Susy  danced,  danced,  danced,  first 
with  the  preacher,  then  with  two  men  from  the  sta- 
tion-house and  with  a  young  conductor.  Once,  flut- 
tering towards  Walter  in  her  long  blue  lawn,  with 
its  lace  insertings,  a  chain  of  turquoise  dangling  from 
her  slender  throat  and  a  crimson  rosette  rising  in 
audacious  brightness  from  the  coils  of  her  shining 
hair — once  Walter  himself  almost  wished  that  he  were 
her  partner.    He  only  yawned,  looked  wonderingly  up 

48 


out  of  his  muddy  dull  eyes,  puffed  a  second  time  at 
his  cheap  cigar  and  watched  her  float  on  and  away 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Here,  beneath  the 
smutty  lamp,  Susy  took  out  her  little  mull  handker- 
chief, wiped  the  moisture  from  her  wide  white  fore- 
head, adjusted  her  rosette  and,  breathless,  turned  for 
another  dance,  and  another,  and  yet  another,  until 
far  on  in  the  morning.  Then  Walter  got  up,  stretched 
himself,  for  he  had  enjoyed  several  naps,  and  Susy 
let  him  lead  her  away  to  bed. 

The  men  turned,  fastening  their  eyes  on  the  vanish- 
ing blue  dress  and  the  tall,  willowy,  girlish  figure.  "A 
fellow  doesn't  have  to  play  partner  to  that  girl.  She 
beats  all  at  dancin'  that  I've  struck.  She's  the  man 
this  time,  and  how  she  can  keep  it  up!  I  felt  as 
though  I  was  in  the  arms  of  the  wind,  had  no  more 
power  over  myself  than  if  I  had  been  a  new-born 
baby."  As  the  stalwart  station-master  spoke,  three 
men  standing  near  shook  their  heads  in  mute  assent. 
After  their  rounds  with  fair  Susy  they  were  worn, 
fagged,  beaten. 

All  this  happened  more  than  thirty  years  ago.  It 
had  taken  so  long  for  Susy  and  Youth  to  break  the 
pact.  It  had  taken  monotonous  years  on  the  lonely 
desert-ranch,  speechless  weeks,  vacuous  hours,  days 
and  days,  when  Walt  was  at  work  with  the  ranch- 
hands,  when  Magdalena,  the  old  Mexican  woman, 
dozed  on  the  veranda,  when  the  last  fruit-jar  was 
filled    and    a    satiety    of   nothingness    choked    Susy's 

49 


spirit.  There  were  intervals,  too  when  "Walt^'  went  to 
Santa  Fe  for  several  days.  At  such  times  Susy  was 
in  the  habit  of  spending  the  endless  afternoons  crouch- 
ing on  the  floor  before  "Walt's"  three  book-shelves. 
Fifty  books  filled  the  little  cases.  On  the  first  shelf 
were  eighteen  volumes  of  "The  New  American  Ency- 
clopaedia," "A  Gazetteer  of  the  United  States,"  and 
"The  Library  of  Universal  Knowledge."  None  of 
these  had  she  dared  to  open, — the  word  "Encyclo- 
paedia"' disconcerted  her,  she  had  no  idea  what  it 
meant  or  how  to  pronounce  it.  One  day  she  had 
almost  reached  the  point  of  asking  "Walt,"  but  he 
always  laughed  at  her  questions.  She  was  also  afraid 
that  if  he  should  tell  her,  and  she  might  not  remember, 
then  he  would  tease  her,  and  to  be  teased  was  some- 
thing she  could  not  endure.  The  middle  row  was 
even  more  baffling.  The  titles  were  so  far  beyond  her, 
that  she  concluded  they  must  be  in  another  language. 
"Geology  and  Palaentology  of  California,"  "Metal- 
lurgical Treatment  of  Ores,"  "Desilverization  of  Base 
Bullion."  She  grew  to  despise  the  words.  They 
meant  all  that  was  mortifying,  humiliating  in  her  life. 
They  meant  defeat.  She  decidedly  liked  the  books 
on  the  last  shelf.  She  felt  equal  at  least  to  their 
outside  covers.  There  were  the  "Battles  of  the  United 
States,"  "The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Confederate  Gov- 
ernment," "The  Great  Conspiracy,"  and  one  book,  her 
favorite  of  them  all,  "The  Personal  Memoirs  of  U. 
S.   Grant."     After  many  months  she  learned  to  say 

50 


over  this  list  with  her  eyes  shut.  One  day  she  read 
a  paragraph  in  the  ''Memoirs,"  she  thought  that  some 
time  she  might  get  through  a  whole  chapter,  she  read 
very  slowly  and  the  meaning  of  ''Memoirs"  went  un- 
revealed  to  the  last. 

It  had  taken  all  this  to  complete  the  breach  between 
Susy  and  Youth. 

On  this  August  afternoon  when  Susy  put  out  her 
arm  to  fasten  the  comb  in  her  still  lustrous  hair,  her 
arm  pained,  a  twinge,  a  start — Youth  had  fled!  She 
rose  more  quickly  than  was  her  wont.  By  seven 
o'clock  she  and  Magdalena  were  seated  in  the  old 
buggy  on  their  way  to  the  dance.  "Walt"  had  never 
approved  of  this  dissipation  of  Susy's.  As  time  went 
on,  she  had  gradually  refused  the  weekly  invitations  to 
the  Mexican  parties.  Tonight  "Walt"  was  in  Santa 
Fe.  It  would  matter  very  much  to  Susy's  friends  in 
the  valley  whether  she  went  or  not ;  for  it  was  a  dance 
in  honor  of  the  little  bride,  Don  Eulogio's  only  daugh- 
ter. To  be  sure  there  had  been  a  tacit  understanding 
between  "Walt"  and  herself  that  she  would  not  go; 
but  this  was  no  ordinary  occasion, — all  her  old  friends 
would  be  there,  and  as  a  dancer  old  Don  Eulogio  had 
not  his  peer  in  the  valley.  Something  of  this  sort  went 
through  Susy's  mind,  as  Magdalena  urged  on  the 
horse  and  Susy  nervously  buttoned  the  wrinkled 
white  gloves  and  patted  her  feet  under  the  linen 
buggy-shawl.  Eager,  restless  she  was  for  one  more 
dance.    Years  must  have  passed  since  she  had  felt  the 

51 


moist  earth  beneath  her  feet,  since  she  had  heard  the 
celestial  music  of  lame  Benito's  mandolin.  Don  Eulo- 
gio's  patio  was  crowded  with  guests;  but  in  the  sola 
of  the  adobe,  where  lame  Benito  was  for  the  third  time 
sprinkling  the  earth  floor  to  keep  down  the  dust,  there 
was  nothing  less  than  a  ''crush."  Statuesque,  imper- 
turbable, the  Indians  in  their  splendid  blankets,  sheep- 
skin leggings,  embroidered  belts,  tunics  and  feathers, 
stood  about  the  white  walls — satisfying  as  a  Pompei- 
ian  freize.  Pressing  against  them  were  Mexicans 
from  far  and  wide  the  valley  over.  Some  were 
'"dressed,"  others  wore  blue  jeans,  the  women  were 
mostly  in  yellov/  skirts  and  bright  w^aists.  The  little 
bride  was  arrayed  in  white.  Don  Eulogio  stepped 
lightly  upon  a  bench  and  called  the  first  dance;  high 
up  in  the  casement  the  orchestra  plaved  old  Spanish 
music,  wistful,  seductive.  The  eyes  of  the  men  light- 
ened a  bit ;  but  no  hint  of  a  smile  was  seen  on  the 
women's  faces, — not  even  upon  that  of  the  squatty 
brown  bride.  It  was  all  so  dignified  and  full  of  sol- 
emnity— the  waltz,  the  two-step,  the  slow,  rhythmic 
music. 

Into  their  midst  stepped  the  queenly  figure  of  Susy 
in  the  old  blue  lawn  and  the  crimson  rosette,  followed 
by  Magdalena.  The  men  smiled,  the  passive  coun- 
tenances of  the,  women  relaxed.  Under  the  dripping 
candles  Don  Eulogio  led  her,  approved  by  gracious 
glances  from  the  air-starved  little  room.  The  bride, 
gathering   up   her   muddy,   bedraggled   skirts,    retired 

52 


and  sat  down  to  watch  the  supple  movements,  the  ser- 
pentining grace  of  la  Americana.  Susy  danced  with 
every  man  in  the  room  who  asked  her.  A  few  held 
off  from  sheer  timidity,  from  fear  of  the  old  beauty's 
abandon.  It  must  have  been  nearly  daybreak,  "Muy 
bien,  muy  hien!"  cried  the  guests.  One  tall  Indian 
gave  a  prolonged  grunt  for  more.  There  was  not  a 
partner  equal  to  another  turn. 

Whether  it  was  the  Indian's  grunt  of  delight  that 
urged  Susy  on  or  not,  who  can  tell?  Alone  she  swept 
into  the  middle  of  the  jEloor.  Two  candles  sputtered 
in  the  primitive  candalabra,  the  straggly  red  geran- 
iums drooped  along  the  wall,  the  musicians  had 
stopped, — only  lame  Benito  played  low  tremulous  mu- 
sic on  his  mandolin.  Susy  danced,  swaying  her  long 
slender  arms,  gracefully  bending  her  stately  head. 
Susy  danced,  her  dark  eyes  gleaming  as  though  she 
looked  into  the  face — Ah !  Youth  was  by  her  side ! — 
'Twas  he  of  the  old  aspirations,  the  illimitable  hopes, 
the  unquenchable  desires.  And  no  one  of  the  on- 
lookers guessed,  nor  did  Susy  herself,  that  the  pas- 
sion, disappointment,  pain,  were  for  an  instant  trans- 
muted into  the  beautiful  grace  of  that  quivering  old 
body. 

*  *  >f:  :{:  5]:  ils 

-J»  5jC  ^  JjC  ^  ^ 

Morning  intruded  itself  upon  the  desert's  solitude. 
Rays  of  sunlight  ran  up  the  dumb  peaks,  forcing 
them  into  speech — the  speech  of  color — passionate  as 

53 


the  vibrations  of  sound.  Below,  the  gray,  silent  val- 
ley brightened,  and  a  birH  piped  in  Susy's  nectarine 
tree. 

"Don't  leave  me,  Magdalena,"  moaned  Susy  to  the 
faithful  Alexican  woman  who  bent  tenderly  over  her, 
as  she  lay  pale,  suffering  in  the  white  adobe  kitchen. 
"Don't  leave  me,  and  when  'Walt'  comes  tell  him  I 
am  sorry  I  went.  I  knew  if  I  danced  another  step, 
the  pain  would  cinch  me." 


Nancy  K.  Foster. 

54 


THE  SPIRITUAL  WOOING  of  PETER  HANCE. 


IVE  feet  three  Peter  measured.  He  had  to 
stand  straight  to  do  it,  and  he  never  meas- 
ured in  his  stockings.  Ordinarily  it  might 
have  been  less,  v^hen  he  hadn't  his  back 
braced  against  a  wall  and  his  muscles  stiffened  with 
the  zeal  for  achieving  inches,  when  his  shoulders 
rounded  to  their  usual  easy  slouch  and  his  back  bent 
a  little,  comfortably,  after  its  manner.  Taken  un- 
awares, Peter  might  not  have  reached  even  five  feet 
three.  But  five  feet  three  was  his  mark,  and  he  could 
straighten  to  it  again,  if  it  came  to  proving. 

But  the  soul  of  Peter  was  looked  up  to  as  at  great 
heights  above  his  fellows.  When  six-foot  men  dropped 
their  chins  into  their  collars  to  look  down  at  his  fleshly 
countenance  and  met  his  mild,  blue  upturned  eyes,  they 
felt,  and  Peter  felt,  that  their  souls  were  gazing  up 
almost  into  the  clouds  to  perceive  him.  Peter  was  a 
spiritualist,  the  most  fervid,  and  he  was  understood 
to  have  had  experiences.  It  was  rather  a  new  thing 
with  him.  While  Martha  lived  he  had  never  consorted 
with  spirits,  other  than  the  ordinary,  embodied  kind, 
nor  been  encouraged  much  to  realize  that  he  was  as 
other  men  were  not.     Martha  was  a  good  wife,  but 

55 


not  flattering.  With  the  fatality  that  attends  the 
choice  of  Httle  men,  Peter  had  wedded  a  tall,  tall 
lady  in  his  youth,  and  Martha  had  always  made  the 
utmost  of  her  advantage  of  physical  substance.  But 
Martha  was  dead — dead  more  than  a  year  ago — and 
in  that  year  the  lowly  Peter  had  risen,  and,  strange 
enough,  it  was  Martha  who  had  exalted  him. 

It  began  one  late  May  morning.  Peter  was  de- 
ciding something.  You  could  have  told  that  from  the 
looks  of  him — or  Martha  could.  He  had  decided 
eleven  times  in  twice  as  many  hours,  five  times  one 
way  and  six  times  the  other,  and  was  proceeding  to 
the  twelfth,  which  would  have  made  things  even ;  and 
never  in  all  the  months  of  his  bereavement  had  he  felt 
the  lack  of  Martha  more  keenly.  He  looked  at  his 
showcase — Peter  kept  a  jewelry  store  in  a  small  way 
— his  eye  traveled  over  its  glitter,  and  found  no  stay- 
ing counsel  there.  He  glanced  at  the  window ;  no 
suggestions  in  it.  He  went  over  to  the  door,  and 
gazed  long  up  the  street;  two  boys,  one  wagon,  and 
a  cloud  of  dust;  nothing  whatever  to  guide  a  per- 
turbed mind.  In  very  helplessness  he  was  on  the  in- 
stant of  the  twelfth  decision,  when  a  footstep  arrested 
him,  and  plucked  him  out  of  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts. 

It  was  a  man  coming — when  Peter  turned  he  was 
already  near — a  tall,  puffy  man,  with  small,  pale  blue 
eyes  that  wandered,  and  a  silk  hat  which  he  wore  with 
a  sort  of  devoutness. 

''Sir,"  said  he,  "good  morning.  I  am  not  mistaken 
56 


in  thinking  I  speak  to  Mr.  Peter  Hance?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Peter.     ''That's  my  name,  sir." 

''The  voice  and  all,  exactly  as  she  described  him," 
murmured  the  tall  gentleman.  "May  I  step  inside, 
Mr.  Hance?  I  have  something  of  the  gravest  im- 
portance to  communicate;  I  have  something  to  de- 
liver to  you  which  it  will  stir  your  heart  to  receive." 

"You  have!"  said  Peter.  The  remark  scarcely 
seemed  adequate,  but  Peter  was  a  trifle  bewildered. 
Snatched  from  the  very  brink  of  his  twelfth  decision, 
he  was  not  able  all  in  a  minute  to  take  hold  of  a  new 
situation.  "Come  in,"  he  said,  "and  sit  down.  What 
is  it,  Mr. " 

The  tall  man  laid  aside  his  hat  solemnly,  and  took 
the  chair  Peter  offered  him  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  rite. 

"All  as  she  told  us,"  he  said.  "All  as  his  wife  de- 
scribed it — the  room,  that  showcase,  the  watches  in 
the  first  tray,  gold  rings  next,  the  clock  there " 

"What?"  said  Peter.     "Whose  wife?" 

"Mr.  Hance,"  said  the  visitor,  "do  you  know  what 
that  question  is  you  have  asked?.  Do  you  know,  sir? 
Are  you  prepared  to  receive  the  answer?" 

Peter's  eyes  were  round  by  this  time  with  a  sense 
of  mystery.  His  lips  opened  to  let  out  a  reply,  if  his 
brain  should  be  able  to  forward  one. 

"You  asked  whose  wife,"  continued  the  visitor. 
"Sir,"  and  he  sat  tall  in  his  chair  and  let  his  eyes  rest 
for  one  instant  on  Peter's,  "Mr.  Hance,  yours." 

"Why,  Martha's — "  began  Peter.  "Did  you  know 
Martha?" 

57 


The  tall  man  smiled  a  tender  and  solemn  kind  of 
smile.    "In  this  life,"  said  he,  *'we  never  met." 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Peter. 

"Many  things  of  the  spiritual  life  are  yet  dark  to 
you,"  said  the  visitor.  "Your  wife  has  told  us  so.  But 
she  wishes  your  eyes  to  be  opened.  And  for  your 
sake  she  came  to  us.  I  am — my  name  is  not  unknown 
here ;  I  think  I  may  say  it  is  not  unknown  in  the  spirit 
land  either,  through  the  lady  who  bears  it.  I  am  the 
husband  of  Mrs.  Anna  J.  Smithers." 

Mr.  Hance  bowed  his  acknowledgments  of  the  honor 
of  meeting  a  gentleman  so  highly  connected  and  mur- 
mured some  words,  but  Mr.  Smithers  did  not  wait  to 
listen  to  them. 

"It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remind  you,"  continued 
he,  "that  Mrs.  Anna  J.  Smithers  is  a  medium.  She 
is  a  psychographic  medium." 

"Oh?"  said  Peter.  Then  he  added,  "What— what  is 
that?" 

"Your  departed  wife  told  us,"  said  Mr.  Smithers, 
"that  you  would  not  understand  our  terms,  and  wished 
me  to  explain  them  to  you.  I  will,  Mr.  Hance.  A  psy- 
chographic medium  is  one  who  is  privileged  to  be  the 
means  of  communication  by  letter  from  the  other 
world.  Those  who  are  in  the  spirit  life  write  with  her 
hand,  in  trance,  and  so  make  her  the  instrument  of  a 
renewed  intercourse  with  their  friends  who  are  still 
in  this  life." 

A  flash  illuminated  Peter.     "Sounds  like  a  sort  of 
58 


a  telegraph,"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Smithers.  ''Grossly  put,  that  is 
it.  She  is  what  you  might  call  a  spiritual  telegraph. 
And  oh,  Mr.  Hance,  such  blessed  communications  as 
I  and  many  others  have  been  privileged  to  receive 
through  her !"  A  solemn  quaver  broke  his  voice,  and 
he  stopped  speaking  and  began  to  look  among  the 
papers  in  a  large  pocketbook  which  for  some  minutes 
he  had  been  holding  in  his  hand.  He  took  one  out 
from  the  rest,  laid  it  on  his  knee,  and  shut  the  pocket- 
book  and  fastened  it  again  with  a  broad  rubber  and 
put  it  back  in  his  pocket,  Peter  watching  him  the 
while  with  absorbed  and  somewhat  apprehensive  in- 
terest.   Then  he  picked  up  the  paper  from  his  knee. 

"Take  it,"  he  said.  "This  letter  is  from  your  de- 
parted wife." 

Peter  took  it.  He  looked  at  one  side,  and  long  at 
the  other,  and  then  at  Mr.  Smithers.  Then  he  looked 
at  the  letter  again. 

"  'Tisn't  her  writing,"  he  said.     "Not  Martha's." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smithers.  "That  you  couldn't 
expect,  yet.  You  see  it's  an  unfamiliar  hand  she  uses 
to  write  with,  and  though  willing,  though  eager, 
though  long  experienced  in  being  used  by  those  in 
spirit  life,  not  yet  accustomed  to  yield  itself  to  her 
individuality." 

Peter  was  still  turning  the  letter  over  and  over  in 
his  hand — and  in  his  mind,  too,  apparently — and  still 
he  did  not  open  it.     But  his  face  was  flushed,  and  ex- 

59 


citement  was  growing  in  his  eyes. 

"Hers  was  kind  of  long,"  he  said,  "and  straighter; 
didn't  have  those  curves  to  the  ends  of  the  letters. 
It  always  looked  like  Martha  to  me,  her  writing  did." 

"She  said,"  suggested  Mr.  Smithers,  looking  now  at 
the  showcase  and  now  at  the  door,  and  occasionally 
between  words  at  Peter,  "she  said  you  might  doubt 
at  first.  But  she  hoped  you  would  soon  be  enabled 
to  perceive  the  truth.  She  felt  that  you  might  be  in 
trouble  of  mind,  my  dear  sir,  and  in  need  of  the  guid- 
ance  of  her   clarified  intelligence." 

Peter  looked  up  from  the  letter  suddenly  with  a 
startled  countenance,  and  almost  met  Mr.  Smither's 
eyes,  which  were  just  shifting  to  the  window.  All 
his  eleven  decisions  rushed  back  to  his  mind  at  once 
in  a  chaos  of  remembered  helplessness. 

"That  seems  like  her,  more  than  the  hand-writing," 
said  he.  "I — Pd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  Martha — or 
something,"  and  his  look  went  back  to  the  letter. 

Mr.  Smithers  rose.  "I  will  leave  you,  ^Ir.  Hance," 
said  he,  "to  your  wife's  communication.  I  trust  you 
will  find  great  comfort  in  it.     Good  morning,  sir." 

Even  when  Air.  Smithers  was  gone,  even  when  his 
black  shoulders  and  his  tall  and  shining  hat  had  quite 
disappeared  down  the  street,  even  yet  Peter  did  not 
open  his  letter.  He  stood  turning  it  in  his  fingers  ab- 
sently. Remorse  was  fastening  upon  him,  and  no  one 
was  near  to  witness  the  ravages  it  was  making. 

"She  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  said  he.     "If  I'd  been 

6c 


taken  and  she'd  been  left,  Martha  wouldn't  have  been 
thinking  of  inviting  her  neighbor  and  going  to  the 
theater  as  soon  as  this  afterward."  Peter  sighed  heav- 
ily. "Oh,  no,"  he  said,  ''Martha  wouldn't  ha/e.  I 
think  she  wouldn't." 

His  eyes,  which  had  been  staring  very  far  away, 
turned  again  to  the  letter.  He  left  the  doorway  and 
went  back  to  the  chairs  that  he  and  his  visitor  had 
lately  quitted.  Then  he  stood  still,  and  looked  round 
the  room,  and  at  the  door,  and  the  street  beyond, 
and  the  stationery  store  across  the  street,  and  its  door- 
way, in  which  somebody  appeared  just  at  this  instant 
and  then  vanished  again  inside. 

"I  don't  suppose  she'd  have  gone,  anyway,"  he 
sighed.  "She's  just  wrapped  up  in  Mr.  Brown's  mem- 
ory.    'Tisn't  likely  she'd  have  gone  anyway." 

An  hour  or  so  later  Mr.  Hance  came  out  to  his 
door  again,  and  seeing  nothing  that  looked  like  a  cus- 
tomer up  or  down  the  street,  abandoned  his  jewels 
and  hurried  over  the  way  to  the  little  stationery  store 
opposite.  Inside  a  woman  behind  the  counter  was 
doing  up  a  parcel,  while  the  purchaser  stood  waiting. 
She  was  a  fluttering  sort  of  a  woman,  with  a  quantity 
of  blond  hair  that  curled  and  waved  and  stood  out 
elaborately  round  her  rather  thin,  rather  tired  face. 
Her  quick  fingers  finished  the  tying  of  the  string,  and 
she  handed  the  purchaser  her  package  and  change, 
,and  turned  a  gracious  smile  upon  Peter. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said.  "Anything  I  can  do 
61 


for  you,  Mr.  Hance?" 

Peter  watched  the  customer  out  of  the  door  before 
he  made  any  answer,  and  when  he  did  speak  it  was 
with  some  embarrassment. 

"If  you  aren't  so  very  busy  and  could  spare  time 
to  talk  about  something — "  said  he.  "There's  some- 
thing happened  this  morning  that's — that's  upsetting, 
Mrs.  Brown,  and  I  don't  know  what  to. make  of  it. 
I've  been  thinking  about  it  all  the  last  hour,  and  the 
more  I  think  the  more  I  don't  know  what  to  think." 
He  had  the  letter  in  his  hand  now.  "And  I  just 
thought,"  he  concluded,  "that  if  you'd  be  willing  to 
read  the  letter  and  see  whether  you  thought  it  was 
really  her  that  sent  it — " 

"Why,  hasn't  it  got  any  name  to  it?  Where'd  you 
get  it?  Through  the  mail?"  Mrs.  Brown  leaned  over 
the  counter  and  looked  with  lively  interest  at  the  en- 
velope that  Peter's  words  offered  her  but  his  hand 
still  held  tight. 

"It  isn't  just  an  ordinary  kind  of  a  letter,  you  see," 
said  Peter.  "It's  signed  all  right;  but — I  don't  know. 
Mr.  Smithers — he's  a  medium,  I  mean  his  wife  is,  and 
she  goes  into  trances  and  spirits  of  different  people 
who've  died  write  letters  with  her  hand,  and  then  he 
gives  them  to  the  people  they're  to — I  don't  know 
whether  you've  heard  of  him — well,  he  brought  it  to 
me  this  morning,  and  he  says  it's  from  Martha,  from 
my  wife  who's  dead,  Mrs.  Brown." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown. 

62 


''That's  what  he  told  me,"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  what  does  it  say  ?    Does  it  seem  like  her  ?" 

"That  was  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  do — to  read 
it,"  said  Peter.  "I  thought,  seeing  you'd  been  left 
alone  too,  you'd  kind  of  understand  how  I  felt." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Brown.  "I'd  feel  just  that 
way  if  anybody'd  brought  me  anything  from  Ira." 

"Well,  here  it  is,"  said  Peter,  at  last  really  prof- 
fering the  letter. 

A  strange  unwillingness  seized  Mrs.  Brown  now 
that  the  moment  was  come,  and  she  shrank  from  the 
envelope  that  looked  so  uncannily  ordinary,  so  white 
and  square  and  commonplace  and  insignificant  of 
anything  beyond   this   ordinary  fleshly   world. 

"You — hadn't  you  better  read  it  aloud?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  taking  the  letter  out  of  its  en- 
velope, "maybe  I  had."  He  unfolded  it  slowly.  "I 
don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  said,  and  looked  into 
space  a  moment,  and  sighed,  and  began  to  read. 

"Beloved  husband."  Here  he  interrupted  the  read- 
ing. "Now  some  way  that  doesn't  sound  like  Mar- 
tha," he  said.  "She  generally  used  to  say  just  'Dear 
Peter.' " 

"But  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "things  would  be 
so  different  now.  I  don't  know  how  you  could  ex- 
pect her  to  use  the  same  words.  We  don't  know  how 
much  they're  changed." 

"Yes,  of  course,  that's  so,"  said  Peter.  "I'd  thought 
63 


of  that."     Then  he  went  on  reading. 

"  'All  is  well  with  me,  and  I  am  much  happier  than 
when  on  earth.  I  am  with  dear  Mother  and  dear 
brother  John,  who  died  in  infancy.  Do  not  sorrow 
for  me.  We  are  all  together,  all  united  once  more 
in  the  blessed  life  beyond  the  tomb.  Some  day  you 
too  will  be  with  us  and  all  our  dear  ones.  Dry  your 
tears  and  look  forw^ard  to  that  bright  day  when  we 
shall  be  together  here  in  the  spirit  world.  Brother 
John  and  Mother  are  very  happy.  Death  has  not 
separated  us,  dear  husband,  for  my  spirit  remains  near 
you.  How  happy  it  would  make  me  to  come  to  you 
at  one  of  the  meetings,  and  bind  up  your  aching  heart ! 
Your  ever  loving,. 

Martha.'  -" 

Peter  folded  the  letter  carefully  and  put  it  back  in 
its  envelope. 

''Well,"said   he,    "that's    the    letter." 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

A  leisurely,  gingham-shirted  boy  appeared  in  the 
doorway  just  then.  "There's  a  man  wants  his  watch 
fixed,  Mr.  Hance,"  said  he.  "There  ain't  been  any- 
body else  in  before.  He  said  he  wished  I'd  tell  you 
to  hurry  up." 

"All  right,  Willie,"  said  the  proprietor,  rising  hast- 
ily. "You  tell  him  I'll  be  right  over."  Then  as  the 
youth  sauntered  off  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Brown  again. 

"Would  you — couldn't  we — I  thought  maybe  you'd 
like  to  go  to  one  of  those  meetings,  considering  Mr. 

64 


Brown,  you  know;  and,  of  course,  maybe  the  letter 
isn't  from  Martha,  but  that  about  her  mother  and  her 
Httle  brother  John — that  looks  as  if  Martha  must  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it,  because  Mr.  Smithers 
didn't  know  Martha's  folks,  nor  his  wife,  either.  And 
I  thought  I'd  like  to  go  to  one  and  kind  of  see.  It  says 
in  the  paper  there's  one  tomorrow  night,  and  I  thought 
I'd  ask  you  what  you'd  think  of  us  going  to  it." 

He  waited  anxiously  for  Mrs.  Brown's  reply. 

*'l  don't  know  as  I'd  ever  have  thought  of  such 
a  thing."  Mrs.  Brown's  voice  was  agitated,  and  she 
picked  up  a  bit  of  paper  and  commenced  folding  it 
small.  ''It's  a  solemn  thought  to  think  of  hearing 
from  Ira  again  when  I'd  given  him  up  five  years  ago. 
And  yet  I  don't  know  why  they  shouldn't.  I  know  if 
it  was  me  I'd  try  and  come  back  and  talk  to  Ira,  and 
I  guess  you  feel  the  same  way  about  your  wife." 

Peter  leaned  against  the  counter,  the  man  ajcross 
the  way  quite  gone  from  his  thoughts  already. 

''You  know JgHphalet  Smith?"  asked  he. 

"Yes,"  said"  Mrs.   Brown. 

"Well,  he  goes  to  the  meetings  and  he  gets  mes- 
sages all  the  time  from  his  little  Lizzie." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "I've  heard  him  tell.  And 
I  knew  a  lady  when  I  lived  in  Mayhew  that  went  to 
spiritualist  meetings,  and  it  was  just  wonderful  the 
things  they  told  her  that  nobody  could  have  known 
about  but  her  and  her  friends  that  had  died.  She 
used  to  tell  me."^'"'^' 

65 


"It  does  seem  as  if  there  was  more  in  it  than  we 
knew.  There's  lots  of  things  we  don't  know  about 
this  world,  let  alone  the  other."  Peter  stared  absently 
at  his  own  shop  front  as  he  made  this  deep  reflection, 
but  seemed  not  to  see  it  nor  to  remember  the  unhappy 
man  behind  it. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  hesitatingly,  "I  don't 
know  as  'twould  do  any  harm  just  to  go  and  sec." 

Peter  looked  up  with  great  gratification,  but  his 
eves  met,  beyond  Mrs.  Brown's,  the  gingham-shirted 
boy's,  looking  almost  as  if  he  saw  reasons  for  hur- 
rying. 

"He  says  maybe  you  think  he  can  wait  all  day," 
he  remarked  cheerfully. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Brown,"  said  Peter  fervently, 
and  to  the  boy,  "Yes,  I  was  just  coming,  Willie." 

That  evening's  meeting  was  the  beginning  of 
Peter's  absorption  into  the  inner  circles  of  spiritual- 
ism, and  side  by  side  with  Peter,  of  Mrs.  Brown's. 
They  went  and  sat  through  two  hours  of  uncompre- 
hended  talk  and  inexplicable  occurrences.  Ghostly 
fingers  touched  them,  ghostly  garments  passed  them, 
ghostly  voices  whispered  to  them,  and  long-buried  mo- 
ments of  their  lives  came  up  and  greeted  them  from 
Mrs.  Smithers's  lips  w*th  unearthly  accuracy;  and 
when  it  was  over  they  walked  home  together  with 
minds  awed  and  tongues  tied  and  unready  to  specu- 
late. Then  they  went  again,  and  then  again,  and  then 
again;  and  at  first  slowly  and  then  very  rapidly  they 

66 


discarded  their  questionings  and  took  on  instead  the 
settled  habit  of  indignation  with  any  one  who  was 
so  ignorant  or  so  frivolous-minded  or  so  merely  wicked 
as  to  insinuate  doubt  about  the  reasonableness  of  their 
new  convictions.  At  evening  gatherings  and  on  Sun- 
day afternoons  Peter  came  to  be  one  of  the  familiar 
sights,  one  of  the  inseparable  details  of  the  meeting, 
Peter,  sitting  forward  on  his  bench,  hands  on  knees, 
eyes  round  and  unwinking,  his  bald  round  head  thrust 
forward  in  eager  attention,  and  his  collar  pushing  up 
the  little  ruff  of  yellowish  hair  at  the  back  of  his 
neck. 

Now  Peter  never  understood  just  how  the  next  thing 
happened.  To  speak  the  truth,  he  never  noticed  after- 
ward that  there  was  anything  in  it  that  needed  any 
particular  explaining.  It  may  be  that  Mr.  Smithers 
knew  the  causes  that  worked  obscurely.  It  may  be 
that  Peter  was  liberal  minded  and  a  good  person  to 
keep  important.  But,  however  it  was,  this  was  the 
time  he  blossomed  from  an  insignificant  little  jeweler 
into  a  truly  great  man.  The  first  thing  he  knew,  and 
the  first  thing  Mrs.  Brown  knew,  he  found  himself 
speaking  in  Sunday  meetings  and  being  a  personage. 
Once  started  in  that  way,  he  rose  often.  He  talked 
with  a  confidential  fervor  and  a  great  flow  of  sen- 
tences, and  enjoyed  himself  this  way  amazingly,  and 
more  and  more  often,  while  his  fellow-believers  sat 
before  him  on  the  benches,  listening  and  worshipful. 
Meanwhile  other  great  things  were  shaping  them- 
67 


selves,  not  visibly,  not  audibly,  not  before  the  knowl- 
edge of  men,  but  deep  in  the  secret  breast  of  Peter, 
and  hidden  in  the  palpitating  bosom  of  Mrs.  Brown. 
If  they  gave  no  words  to  this  something  that  was 
growing  within  them,  far  be  it  from  any  biographer 
to  name  it.  Let  him  delicately  suggest,  and  then  with 
a  blush  withdraw  from  the  subject  altogether,  that 
one  prophetic  picture  was  taking  form  in  the  two 
of  them  simultaneously.  But  alas !  One  thought  held 
them  both  back  from  utterance  and  disquieted  both 
of  them.  What  would  the  spirit  of  Martha  say? 
What  could  be  the  sentiments  of  the  spirit  of  the  de- 
parted Ira? 

In  the  late  summer  or  the  early  autumn  the  so- 
ciety of  the  spiritualists  was  accustomed  to  hold  a 
camp-meeting.  Peter  went  this  year,  a  dusty  week  in 
September,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Brown.  Tents  were 
pitched  in  a  sycamore  grove  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  a  place  familiar  with  camp-meetings  of  many 
sorts,  and  familiar,  too,  between  camp-meetings,  with 
picnics  and  merrymakings,  and  even  with  rather  beery 
and  riotous  assemblages.  Dust  lay  white  on  its  syca- 
mores along  the  roadside,  and  two  degraded  evergreen 
trees,  cropped  into  ragged  pillars,  stood  at  the  en- 
trance, with  a  high  wooden  gate  swung  between  them. 
Beyond  it  two  rows  of  evergreens  bordered  the  walk, 
and  between  the  hand  of  man  and  the  hand  of  nature 
wavered  uncertainly,  half  yearning  to  be  trees  and  half 
yielding  to  be  a  green  arched  passage,  and  the  result 

68 


was  most  unkempt  and  unattractive.  The  walk  under 
them  branched  where  they  stopped  and  offered  you 
two  directions;  either  you  could  go  through  another 
evergreen  gateway  to  a  small,  untidy  wooden  build- 
ing, and  sit  down  on  its  porch,  by  a  table,  and  stay 
and  refresh  your  body;  or,  in  camp-meeting  weeks, 
you  could  follow  to  a  large  pavilion,  open  to  the  air 
all  round,  and  sit  on  a  long  wooden  bench  and  lift 
your  eyes  to  Mr.  Hance  and  other  great  people  on 
the  high  platform  at  one  end,  and  drink  in  wisdom 
for  vour  soul's  sustenance.  Or  it  was  possible,  when 
there  w^ere  not  camp-meetings,  to  have  sounds  quite 
other  than  Mr.  Hance's  proceeding  from  the  high 
platform,  and  no  long  benches  ranged  on  the  floor, 
but  all  of  it  cleared  for  dancers,  and  at  these  times 
the  path  under  the  evergreens  commonly  led  people 
both  ways,  one  and  then  the  other.  Around  and  be- 
yond the  buildings,  away  from  the  dust  along  the 
fence,  the  sycamores  stood  cool  and  green  and  shad- 
owy, stretching  their  charitable,  all-welcoming 
branches  over  camp-meetings  or  dances  impartially, 
over  the  spirituous  or  the  spiritual  without  discrim- 
ination. 

This  week  there  was  a  large  sign  by  the  gate,  let- 
ting the  passerby  know  what  things  were  happening 
within,  and  the  tents  scattered  under  the  trees  were 
another  evidence.  In  many  of  the  tents,  too,  there 
were  signs  of  one  kind  and  another.  Spirit  photog- 
raphy, one  offered,   and  another  announced  a  mate- 

69 


rializing  medium;  at  one  tent  the  brethren  were  in- 
vited to  step  in  and  enjoy  the  blessings  of  slate-writ- 
ing to  and  from  their  departed,  and  at  several  places 
one  might  stop  and  look  darkly  into  the  future,  or 
have  all  one's  diseases  cured  by  spirit  intervention. 
The  first  day  of  the  meeting  passed,  and  the  sec- 
ond, and  then  dawned  the  third,  which  to  Peter  was 
the  soul-stirring  climax.  For  on  that  day  he  spoke. 
It  may  be  that  the  young  reoorter  in  front  was  not  J 
moved  to  say  it  was  a  great  effort.  It  may  be  that 
none  of  the  three  speakers  of  that  afternoon  impressed 
him  profoundly  as  seers  and  prophets.  But  svmpathy 
was  not  in  the  soul  of  the  young  reporter.  He  was 
too  young  and  too  successful,  too  adequate  to  life. 
Trouble  had  never  confronted  him.  nor  the  desolate 
emptiness  of  living.  How  should  he  be  anything  but 
a  trifle  amused,  and  a  trifle  bored,  and  a  good  deal 
contemptuous?  Near  him  an  old  woman  sat.  Her 
black  was  very  rusty,  and  all  curves  and  gracious- 
ness  had  long  since  departed  from  the  tall  frame  it 
covered.  He  watched  how  her  mouth  hune  nerveless- 
ly open,  and  how  she  put  up  her  hand  now  and  then — 
large  knuckled  and  yellow — to  wipe  her  weak  blue 
eyes,  that  were  continually  filling  and  overflowing  but 
never  moved  from  the  speaker,  or  to  put  back  a 
straight  wisp  of  faded  hair  that  came  down  over  her 
face  and  annoyed  her,  and  he  thought  she  was  prob- 
ably half  crazy  from  being  so  work-worn  and  lonely. 
Perhaps  she  was.     A  man  sat  beside  her,  wlio  Kept 

70 


moving  his  hands  nervously,  an  under-sized  man,  with 
an  unbrushed  coat-collar.  And  next  to  him  an  old 
man  was  half  dozing,  but  his  hands  kept  waking  him 
up  by  slipping  off  the  cane  on  whose  knob  they  were 
folded.  Across  on  the  farther  end  of  the  benches 
sat  a  young  woman,  with  large,  dark  eyes,  and  a  lit- 
tle boy  was  beside  her.  Life  was  tugging  in  him,  and 
he  squirmed  in  his  seat,  and  got  up,  and  sat  down, 
and  craned  past  his  mother  to  see  out  under  the  trees 
where  some  children  were  playing,  and  now  and  then 
gazed  up  into  her  face  curiously  and  sat  back  quiet 
for  a  minute,  and  then  began  following  the  children's 
play  again,  moving  very  silently.  She  seemed  not  to 
notice  him,  but  sat  listening,  her  face  tense,  wistful, 
unsatisfied. 

Outside,  the  sycamores  stirred  and  rustled,  and  the 
breeze  brought  in  the  voices  and  laughter  of  children, 
little  sons  and  daughters  of  the  society,  who  thought 
a  camp-meeting  was  a  particularly  glorious  kind  of 
picnic,  because  it  lasted  a  whole  week  and  there  were 
so  many  people  to  play  with  and  everything  was  so 
upset  and  unpredictable. 

After  all,  the  young  reporter's  opinion  mattered 
very  httle  to  Peter.  He  was  simply  an  unbeliever; 
he  had  not  seen  the  light;  and  what  he  might  choose 
to  put  in  his  paper  was  of  no  special  significance. 
Papers  were  flippant  organs,  and  scoffs  were  familiar 
to  the  spiritualists,  and  could  not  touch  nor  alter  the 
realities  of  things.     One  gaze,  however,  Peter  sought 

71 


as  he  talked,  with  eager  desire  that  it  should  be  ap- 
proving. It  was ;  Mrs.  Brown  was  listening  unswerv- 
ingly, and  her  face  wore  an  unconscious  look  that 
Peter  did  not  stop  to  understand  but  that  gratified 
him  exceedingly  and  yet  made  him  turn  his  eyes  away 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  pavilion  when  he  met 
it  and  stammer  full  five  seconds  in  search  of  the  next 
phrase. 

When  it  was  ended,  and  the  meeting  was  adjourned 
till  the  evening,  Peter  stood  for  a  while  basking  in 
appreciation.  A  ponderous  lady  who  moved  in  bil- 
lows of  white  organdy  came  up  and  pressed  his  hand, 
and  her  husband,  who  was  one  of  the  lights  of  the 
society  and  therefore  to  be  trusted,  turned  his  broad, 
red,  double-chinned  countenance  upon  Peter,  and  said 
it  was  ''a  fine  address,  Mr.  Hance;  very  fine,"  after 
which  the  two  moved  oflf  arm  in  arm  in  an  expansive 
flutter  of  organdy  and  importance,  and  the  young 
reporter,  waiting  at  Peter's  elbow,  began  wanting  to 
know  a  number  of  things.  Peter  told  them,  glow- 
ingly, and  the  young  reporter  left  to  find  Mr.  Smith- 
ers;  and  others  succeeded  him.  After  awhile,  in  the 
eddy  and  change  of  sociability,  Peter  drifted  away 
from  his  group  and,  standing  alone  a  minute,  saw 
Mrs.  Brown  and  joined  her,  and  the  two  strolled  oflE 
without  much  purpose  and  without  much  noticing 
where  they  were  going,  out  of  the  pavilion  and  down 
a  shady  vista  of  trees  together,  talking  of  Peter's 
speech  and  then  of  the  less  important  events  of  the 

72 


day  and  then  drifting  round  again  to  its  great  climax. 

"You  did  just  outdo  yourself,  Mr.  Hance,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown  admiringly.  "I  never  heard  you  s^eak 
so  well." 

Peter's  heart  swelled  with  self-esteem  and  gratitude. 
A  vision  came  before  his  memory  of  Mrs.  Brown's 
gaze  of  rapt  attention,  and  an  impulse  siezed  him. 

"I  owe  it  to  you,  Mrs.  Brown;  I  do  really.  I 
couldn't  have  done  what  I  did  if  I  hadn't  seen  how 
you  were  listening,  so  interested.  I  never  can  ev- 
press  to  you  how  you  have  helped  me." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hance!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown,  beam- 
ing at  the  unexpected  tribute.  "Why  what  an  ideal 
Me  help  you!" 

"Yes  you  did,  and  you've  been  a  help  to  me  ever 
since  the  day  you  moved  into  your  store.  I  was  so 
down-spirited  and  so  lonesome,  and  you've  been  just 
a  regular  angel — Susie!" 

Mr.  Hance  blushed  bright  red  at  the  name,  and 
looked  anywhere  else  but  at  the  lady;  and  Mrs. 
Brown's  bosom,  fluttered  already  at  the  thought  of 
Peter's  eminence  and  the  lustre  his  very  presence  was 
shedding  upon  her,  fluttered  now  still  more  wildly. 
She  murmured  something  rather  incoherent  about  his 
kindness  to  think  so — nothing  she'd  done — nothing 
she  could  have  done — 

"No,  just  your  kindness,"  went  on  Peter,  "and 
goodness,  to  me,  and  every  way."  A  surge  of  the 
afternoon's   excitement   and   enjoyment  bore  him   on 

73 


past  his  knowing.  ''You  don't  know  what  you've  been 
to  me  all  these  months — just  a  constant  inspiration. 
I  don't  believe  I'd  ever  have  been  what  I  am  now 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  always  so  sympathetic  and — 
and  advising.  There  hasn't  anybody  ever  had  the  in- 
fluence over  me  you  have.  Why,  even  when  Mar- 
tha—" 

Peter  stopped  short  and  his  eyes  met  Mrs.  Brown's 
in  sudden  consternation.  Then  he  looked  round  him 
nervously,  and  so  did  she,  strangely,  as  if  at  the  air 
rather  than  the  trees  or  the  pathway.  But  the  impulse 
of  speech  was  not  to  be  borne  down  now.  Peter 
moved  close  to  Mrs.  Brown  and  spoke  low. 

"I  love  you,  Susie,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  you 
love  me  any?    Or — or  do  you  think  you  could  ever?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  in  a  voice  small  and 
tremulous,  "I  do  already." 

It  was  out!  It  was  done!  It  was  spoken!  And 
now  what  about  Mr.  Ira  Brown,  and  what  about  Mar- 
tha? 

"Do  you  think  they'd  care  if  we  married  each 
other  ?"  asked  Peter  presently,  and  his  tones  were  very 
anxious.  There  had  been  several  moments  of  silence, 
a  silence  into  which  the  two  had  fallen  gradually,  a 
silence  heralded  by  some  time  of  distraught  and  laps- 
ing  conversation,   and  heavy  with   pondering. 

"I  don't  know  whether  they  would  or  not,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown ;  "all  I  know  is  I  never  in  this  world  can 
feel  right  to  do  it  if  Ira  Brown  doesn't  like  it,  or  if 

74 


your — if  Martha  doesn't." 

"I  can't  make  it  seem  as  if  we  ought  to  any  way," 
she  went  on  in  a  minute,  "with  them  so  near." 

"Still,"  said  Peter,  " 'tisn't  as  if  they  hadn't  died, 
and  them  that's  dead's  dead,  and  I  don't  know  as 
spirits  make  it  any  different." 

"They  do  seem  to,  though,"  said  Mrs.  Brown.  "I 
wish — "  A  look  of  bewilderment  came  into  her  face, 
and  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"I  wish,"  she  began  again — and  this  had  evidently 
no  connection  with  her  former  beginning — "I  just 
wish  I  knew  what  they'd  say,  both  of  them." 

Peter's  face  cleared  suddenly.  "Why,  let's  ask 
them,"  said  he.  "Hadn't  we  better?  Ask  them  if 
we'd  better  do  it,  and  if  they'd  have  any  objection, 
and  if  they  don't  think  it  would  be  for  our  good." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Brown  reflected.  "Yes,  we  can.  I 
guess  that's  the  way  we  ought  to  do.  'Twouldn't 
be  right  not  to — Peter." 

The  name  fell  so  graciously  upon  Peter's  ear,  and 
was  met  with  such  a  look  of  rapture,  that  anxiety 
fled  both  their  faces  for  an  instant.  But  it  overspread 
them  again  immediately. 

"And  of  course,"  Mrs.  Brown  continued,  "if  they 
have  any  feeling — if  they  don't  feel  like  wanting  us 
to—" 

She  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  and  so  did  Peter. 

"There's  Mr.  Smithers's  wife,"  she  suggested,  after 
a  minute. 

75 


"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter;  "I  don't  just  want  to 
go  to  Mrs.  Smithers;  I  don't  know  why." 

"Well/"  assented  Mrs.  Brown  very  cheerfully,  as 
if  she,  too,  felt  some  occult  objections,  "we  don't  have 
to.  There's  plenty  of  mediums  here.  We  can  get 
some  other.  All  round  in  these  tents  I've  seen  their 
signs." 

An  unwonted  spirit  of  decision  seized  Peter. 

"Let's  go  find  one  right  away,"  he  said,  "and — 
and  get  it  over." 

They  turned  back  in  the  direction  of  the  pavilion, 
and  walked  along  under  the  trees,  whose  shadows 
were  lengthening  now  toward  evening,  till  they  came 
to  the  trampled  and  dusty  space  where  the  tents  stood 
thickest.  There  Mrs.  Brown's  eye  caught  a  sign  on 
a  dingy  little  tent  with  a  dark  cloth  hung  at  the  en- 
trance, and  she  stopped.  Peter's  eyes  followed  hers 
and  read,  "Trance  Medium.  See  and  talk  with  your 
departed  friends  face  to  face.  Private  seances."  They 
glanced  at  each  other,  and  with  one  impulse  started 
on  again,  nor  did  either  say  anything  for  some  sec- 
onds. Then,  "I  think  likely  a  message  in  writing 
would  do,  don't  you?"  said  Peter,in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes.  I'd  rather,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  tones 
equally   subdued. 

It  was  late  that  night,  long  after  the  evening  meet- 
ing was  over,  when  Mr.  Smithers,  returning  from 
business  of  importance  somwhere,  met  Mr.  Hance 
emerging  from  a  small  tent  with  a  certain  air  of  buoy- 

76 


ancy  quite  new  to  him,  and  accompanied  by  a  tremu- 
lous and  tearful,  but  radiant  ladv.  He  would  have 
passed  on  with  a  bow  merely,  the  night  being  already 
so  far  spent,  but  Mr.  Hance  stopped  him. 

''I  want  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Smithers,"  said  he,  "that 
Mrs.  Brown  and  I  are  going  to  get  married.  We've 
just  been  having  a  seance  in  here — a.  verv  gratifying 
seance,  Mr.  Smithers ;  I  wish  you  could  have  been 
present — and  Martha — my  wife  that  was,  you  know — 
and  the  late  Mr.  Brown  have  both  given  their  con- 
sent— given  it  heartily,  sir;  we  couldn't  have  asked 
anything  better.    Next  month  we  expect  to  be  united." 

"You  do  not  surprise  me,  Mr.  Hance,"  said  Mr. 
Smithers.  "You  do  not  surprise  me  at  all.  But," 
he  added  sepulchrally,  "you  delight  me.  Through 
Mrs.  Anna  J.  Smithers  I  have  for  several  weeks  been 
acquainted  with  the  wishes  of  your  beloved  spirit  wife 
upon  this  very  subject.  I  congratulate  vou.  I  con- 
gratulate both  of  you.  Good  night,  sir.  Mrs.  Brown, 
good  night."    And  he  passed  on  into  the  darkness. 

"Good  night !"  they  chorused  after  him  in  their  two 
keen,  high  voices,  and  they  also  went  away  into  the 
night,  illuminating  it  almost  visibly  as  they  went  with 
the  radiance  of  their  satisfaction. 


Gertrude  Henderson. 

77 


ir 


'i/Anvnnii  -\*- 


from  whichHwasb^Iowed. 


•-^i, 


''(z 


.^ 


r//,', 


ft  /0\  p; 


5> 


iini  iMi 


^6>Aav8an-^^ 


^    ^fiwaain^ 


3  1158  01206  5016 


,\WEUN1VER% 


<ril3DNVS01^ 


^lOSANCElfXA 
o 


"^AdMiNnawv^ 


^VlOSANCElfx 


<rji30Nvsm^ 


^AaaMsa-iw^^ 


<XUIBRARY^/^       ...lIBRARYQc^ 


%;rH'n\nm^      ^o^nvDjo"!^ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

A    001344  964    o  '| 


y< 


^^Aiivaaii^^      ^6?AHVHaiii^ 


^lllBRARYQc 


-5^1LIBRARYQ^ 
^  1   ir^  ^ 


^^WEUNIVERVa 


^^OJIIVOJO-^      %0JTOjO^        "^J:?13DNVS01^ 


^lOSANCElfj^ 


%il3AlNn-3rtv^ 


^.OFCAIIFO/?^ 
>     V/  _  1^ 


^^AHvaaiii^ 


^OFCAlIFOff^ 


"^^wyaiH^ 


,5X\EUNIVER% 


^VlOSANCElfj-^ 


^TiiaDNvsov^^     "^/yajAiNa-jwv^ 


.^\^El]NIVERy//^ 


^ViOSANCElfx^ 

o 


-^UIBRARYQ^^       ^^^l•llBRARY(9^ 


"^/^aBAINfllVW^  "^(i/OJIlVDJO^       ^<!/0JllV3JO^ 


